


Intoxicated

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Loss, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), D/s aspects, Human Aziraphale, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Mind Control, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Protective Crowley, Sexual Content, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Torture, Vampire Crowley, Vampire Sex, aziraphale is a human but that doesn't mean he's not a bastard, blood taking, there's actually minimal blood mentions but it's a vampire fic so take care, vampire typical kind of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-30 20:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I don’t want to hurt you,” Crowley whispers.“What if I want you to?”Crowley's a vampire, desperately trying to control his thirst around the man he'd do anything for. Aziraphale just wants him to take a drink.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 166
Kudos: 371
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

The alleyway outside the bookshop is cloaked in shadow, and the wall Aziraphale is pressed against is hard and cold.

Grey fingers wrap around his collar, sharp teeth inches away from Aziraphale’s neck, breath catching on the cold air as he hisses, “like to play with things that go bump in the night, do you?”

Two other shadowy figures encircle him. Aziraphale’s back is flat against the wall behind him.

“I don’t accept thieves in my shop, no matter the species,” Aziraphale says, sharply.

“Brave one, isn’t he?”

The other two cackle, nasty laughs filling the night air.

And then there’s a flash, the three creatures looking away as another appears, this one vastly more human-looking, red-haired and sporting a pair of dark glasses.

“Get away from him!” the new figure hisses. 

“What’s it to you?” the creature holding Aziraphale against the wall says. “This is our kill. Scram.”

“If you so much as scratch him, I’ll _eviscerate_ you.”

The leader laughs again, that scratchy laugh that wasn’t quite human. “Tough guy thinks he can—”

The sentence stops in its tracks when the figure darts forward and bares his teeth, ripping out the creature’s jugular, and with one last shriek, the creature vanishes in a puff of smoke. The other two scarper as soon as their eyes have registered the scene, and then, it’s just Aziraphale and the new figure alone in the alleyway.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, mildly. “Took you long enough.”

“What did you think you were doing out here? Did you think you could take on three of them by yourself?”

The answer is _I was trying to get your attention_, but instead, Aziraphale frowns and says primly, “I wasn’t going to let the thieves get away.”

“They weren’t human, Aziraphale! They could have killed you.” 

Aziraphale dusts off his clothes, unbothered. “You’re not human.”

“I’m—” Crowley says, and then stops. “I’m different.”

“Clearly.”

“You can’t do this every time you want a social call—”

“Well, yes, apparently I do, don’t I? It’s been _months_ since you last—”

“What if I hadn’t been around to rescue you?”

“Well, you _were_ around, weren’t you?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s teeth are gritted. “But what if I hadn’t been?”

They’d moved a few steps closer in the exchange, and before Crowley can stop him, Aziraphale plucks the sunglasses from his face.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says in realisation, his hand gently cupping Crowley’s cheek as he takes in his fully dilated black pupils, “_you’re hungry._”

Crowley’s quivering hand pulls Aziraphale’s away from his face. “What did you think was the problem?” he says, yanking the glasses out of Aziraphale’s hands and shoving them back on his face.

Aziraphale presses his lips together, fiddling with the ring on his little finger, biting down the answer: _I thought you didn’t want to be around me anymore_. Instead, he asks, “what happened to your contact in the hospital?”

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, head bending back towards the wall.

_He’s in pain_, Aziraphale notes with a furrowed brow.

“He moved on. Don’t know who the new guy is and I’m definitely not gonna be able to persuade him to give me free rein to the blood bank.”

“How long have you gone without feeding?”

Crowley purses his lips.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is insistent. “Tell me.”

“Six weeks.”

“_Six weeks?_ You must be half-starved! How have you managed?!”

“Don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale’s face softens, his arms unfolding. His hand reaches out to touch Crowley’s wrist, but he recoils.

“You can’t touch me right now,” Crowley says, “I’m a danger to you.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Exactly why I need to stay away from you.”

Aziraphale huffs.

“Come inside.”

“Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?”

“I’ll listen when you stop talking nonsense,” Aziraphale says. “Now, I’m inviting you inside, so come inside before I have to make another scene.”

Crowley scowls and mutters something under his breath that sounds like, _stupid stubborn human_, and follows Aziraphale into the shop.

Aziraphale bustles about the kitchen while Crowley hovers in the kitchen doorway, watching him open and close cupboards.

“Tea?” Aziraphale offers, a slight smile on his face.

Crowley snorts. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

Aziraphale makes his own, taking the steaming mug out into the living area. Crowley follows, keeping a good few feet away at all times. 

Aziraphale takes a long drink from his mug, and then stares at Crowley intently.

“Crowley,” he says. “I want you to drink from me.”

* * *

Crowley chokes on air, spluttering up nothing as he processes what Aziraphale’s just said. Choking turns to coughing, and Crowley bends over, expelling nothing from his lungs that don’t need air, while Aziraphale waits patiently, drinking his tea like he hasn’t just suggested something completely _insane_.

“Are you done?” he asks, after Crowley finishes coughing.

“No,” Crowley says, firmly. “I’m not going to do that.”

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s the simplest way. You need a food source. I’m here. I’m offering myself to you.”

“It’d _kill _you.”

“Well, I didn’t mean for you to take it all, dear boy, I’d been rather hoping to get to the literature festival this summer,” Aziraphale says, in that matter-of-fact way of his, in that annoying,_ oh, do listen to me Crowley, the answer is so very obvious_ kind of way. “Just a little bit. Enough to keep you going.”

Crowley swipes a hand through his hair. “It’s never_ just a little bit_, Aziraphale. It takes so much self-control.”

“You’ve got more self-control than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Crowley wants to laugh. Aziraphale had no idea how much self-control it took just being in the same room as him, that desire that coursed through his whole body as he held off on every impulse to push Aziraphale up against a wall and brush his lips against his neck, sink his teeth in and—

He presses his fingernails into his palm to stop the train of thought.

“I am yours for the taking,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something desperate in his voice, something pleading. “I always have been. I’m offering myself to you, so please. Take me.”

Aziraphale’s fingertips are on his wrists and Crowley is so full of the feel of his touch that time slips away from him as his senses focus on the patch of open skin at Aziraphale’s neck. His fingers slide up Crowley’s wrists, pulling him closer until they are inches away from each other and Crowley finds himself staring at Aziraphale’s lips, and then he’s not thinking of anything but _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale_ and somehow he’s flush against him, and then it’s just hands, hair, touch, skin, as Crowley wraps his arms around him and kisses him fiercely with everything that he’s got.

They kiss and kiss, and Crowley barely realises that he’s moving Aziraphale towards the sofa before the back of Aziraphale’s legs hit the cushions.

Their lips part, their foreheads pressed together, Crowley’s hands curled around Aziraphale’s collar.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.

“What if I want you to?”

Crowley’s eyes catch on Aziraphale’s dilated and soft. His hair is a mess, clothes crumpled, and Crowley can see the pulse point in his neck, flush, and tantalizingly close. Aziraphale lifts his chin, and the last shred of Crowley’s self-control evaporates.

* * *

Crowley pushes a breathless Aziraphale down onto the sofa, following fast to brush his lips against Aziraphale’s neck, gentle at first, but then with more urgency, grazing against the pulse point. Aziraphale’s back arches, pushing himself up into the kiss. 

Crowley’s fingers fumble with buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, impatiently freeing him from his clothes until he’s lying naked underneath him. Aziraphale rids Crowley of his shirt, until Crowley’s straddling him topless, leather trousers against Aziraphale’s bare legs, utterly intoxicating.

“Do it,” Aziraphale breathes, already desperate for more of the feel of Crowley’s lips on his neck. “I need you to—”

Crowley dives down and kisses Aziraphale warmly, his fingers finding Aziraphale’s wrists and pressing them against the sofa, surging forward to kiss him harder. Aziraphale fights to free himself, he wants to pull, he wants to touch, he wants to wrap his arms around Crowley hold him close, kissing him until his lips are sore, but Crowley holds him fast. He’s powerless to do anything but gasp under Crowley’s touch, both powerful and taking but somehow gentle at the same time.

Crowley’s lips slide down Aziraphale’s neck, down towards his chest, kisses peppered all over his body until Aziraphale’s skin is tingling all over, his toes curling.

Crowley pulls back for a second, and Aziraphale thinks, _this is it, this is it_, his heart hammering in anticipation.

“Are you sure?” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale almost laughs.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” he says, “_please,_ Crowley. Do it.”

Crowley’s teeth sink into Aziraphale’s neck and he lets out a gasp, his whole body shivering as Crowley slowly takes a drink. There’s the sting of pain that he expected, but it quickly fades, and all Aziraphale can feel is the warm feeling of Crowley’s mouth on his neck, Crowley’s strong hands holding him tight, and the tickle of Crowley’s hair against his chin. 

It stops as Crowley pulls back for a moment, and Aziraphale practically whines at the loss of contact.

“Are you alright?” Crowley says, eyes searching his. “Should I stop?”

Aziraphale’s fingers curl through Crowley’s hair, pulling him close. “_Don’t you dare_.” 

Crowley dives back down, and Aziraphale’s eyes slide out of focus, the world warm and pleasant around him. Crowley’s hand slips between Aziraphale’s legs, and he gasps, his hips jerking upwards. Crowley had him in the palm of his hands and Aziraphale would let him take whatever he wanted.

It’s ecstasy, Crowley’s hands on his bare skin, his lips on his neck, utterly intoxicating. He’s drunk on the feeling of Crowley taking from him, his mouth warm against his neck, and he never wants it to stop. 

He’s gasping and breathless in Crowley’s arms, the world barely in focus. He’s barely aware of anything and yet he whines again when Crowley moves away. All he wants is Crowley, Crowley holding him, Crowley with his lips on his neck, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

“_More,” _Aziraphale breathes. “You can take more. I can take it.”

His eyes drift open to meet Crowley’s, now back to their perfect golden hue, filled with worry.

“I’ve taken too much already,” Crowley mumbles. “You’re barely coherent.”

“_Please.” _

“No. You’ve had enough,” he says firmly.

Crowley disappears for a few seconds, and Aziraphale barely registers anything until he returns, gently brushing a warm washcloth against his neck.

* * *

He’d taken too much.

Aziraphale’s helpless in his arms, his limbs are limp and his eyes unfocused, eyelids drifting shut. He leans into Crowley’s touch as he gently wipes the blood away from his neck, hands feebly reaching out for him, desperate for more, like a man in a desert, desperately searching for water.

_Oh, what had he done? _

Crowley knew cravings. He knew what it meant to desire so fiercely it felt like he might burst into flames from wanting. He can see it now in Aziraphale’s eyes, that need, that yearning.

Crowley had done that. Crowley had laid his monstrous claim on this human, this human who was so bright, and perfect and untouched by the world of the night. He had _sworn _to himself from the moment he had met the Aziraphale that he would do all he could to protect him, to keep him safe from the creatures that inhabited the dark, to shelter the man who by rights should have been repelled by him, and yet time and time again had invited him in, brought him into the light.

On the sofa, Aziraphale turns, his eyes closing.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, softly at first, and then a little more sharp, “_Aziraphale.” _

“Want to sleep,” Aziraphale mumbles.

“Not just yet.” Crowley sits Aziraphale up. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Aziraphale grumbles something under his breath.

“Please. Open your eyes.”

Aziraphale’s eyes slide open slowly, cloudy and unfocused. “Can I sleep now?” he says, his voice petulant and tired.

“You need sugar. Where do you keep your secret biscuit stash?”

“How do you know about my biscuit stash?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _is this really what you’re taking issue with, right now? _“I’ve known you for years. You have a secret biscuit stash.”

“Cupboard in the kitchen.”

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go to sleep while I’m gone.”

Aziraphale frowns at him, but he sits up anyway. He perks up a little at the sight of the chocolate that Crowley brings back, taking it gleefully from his hands. He polishes off half a packet of bourbons before looking back up at Crowley, petulantly.

“Can I go to bed now?” 

Crowley frowns. Aziraphale looks more alert, but what if there was something wrong that Crowley couldn’t detect?

He takes a step forward, his arms reaching out to slink under Aziraphale’s legs.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Carrying you.”

“Well, that’s just unnecessary,” Aziraphale huffs.

Crowley feels a flash of annoyance. “What if you faint on the stairs? You’ve lost—” his voice catches on the word, shame pooling in his stomach— “I took a lot of blood from you.”

“Not enough to take me off my feet, I can assure you.”

“You can barely stay awake!”

“Which is why I’d really like to get to bed, right now, so if you’d just let me—”

Aziraphale shoots up from the sofa, regretting it almost immediately as he stumbles, a wave of dizziness taking over him. Crowley’s there at his side to steady him, keen vampire senses reacting fast.

“Fine,” Aziraphale says, crossly. “You can carry me.”

Crowley’s arm slides under his knees, the other wrapping around his back, lifting him gently into the air. Aziraphale settles his head into Crowley’s chest, his eyes slipping shut. If Crowley’s heart could beat, it would be pounding right now. He can feel Aziraphale’s thrumming a steady rhythm, and Crowley’s throat burns. Even now, he thirsts, even full, he has to fight every instinct not to surge down and take more. Now he’s had a taste, he finds he’s insatiable, dying for another drop. 

But he won’t. Not while Aziraphale’s in his arms, completely off-guard, totally trusting. He’ll fight off his very nature if it means keeping this man safe.

He carries Aziraphale up the stairs to his room, laying him gently down on his pillow. It’s only around now that he remembers that he’s still in his underwear, and if vampires could blush, his face would be scarlet.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?”

“Top drawer.”

Aziraphale insists on putting them on himself - “_I’m not a child, Crowley,” _\- and settles down amongst the sheets.

“Stay,” he says.

Crowley frowns. _Look what you’ve done to him. Look how you’ve ruined him. _

“I should go.”

Aziraphale fixes him with a glare. “I want you to stay.”

“I’ve done enough. I’ve hurt you enough.”

“You haven’t hurt me.”

“I never should have drunk from you,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale frowns. “Nonsense. You were starving. It was the simplest solution.”

Crowley’s eyes fix on the tiny marks on Aziraphale’s neck. “I shouldn’t have come near you. Not while I was so hungry.”

“I wanted you to do it,” Aziraphale says. “I wanted you to do it,_ desperately_.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“How doesn’t it? You needed it. I wanted to give it to you,” Aziraphale says. “How is that not the best solution you have?”

“I shouldn’t take it. Not from you. Not from anyone.”

Aziraphale’s hand reaches up to cup Crowley’s cheek, far softer than Crowley deserves. “You can’t help who you are, Crowley.”

“What I am is a_ monster_, Aziraphale,” he says, slapping Aziraphale’s hand away. “You shouldn’t even want to look at me after what I’ve done to you. You shouldn’t even be in the same room as me.”

“How many times do I have to remind you?” Aziraphale says, his brow furrowed, “I asked for it. I wanted it.”

“You shouldn’t want it,” Crowley says. His voice is anguished. “You’d be better off if I wasn’t around.”

Aziraphale’s face twists. “Crowley, listen—”

“You’d be safer if I left.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley’s already gone, disappearing into the air. “Crowley! _Crowley_!”

It’s too late. The room is empty. 

* * *

Aziraphale sleeps. When he wakes, he wakes up alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The day after Crowley leaves him alone in the bed, Aziraphale does nothing but sulk. He hangs the ‘closed’ sign up on the front door of the bookshop and spends the day indignantly eating chocolate biscuits, aggressively making cups of tea that he leaves, half-drunk, in various places around his flat, and stews to himself, angrily mumbling all the things he’ll say to Crowley when he next sees him.

The next day, he opens the bookshop, sitting behind the counter and snippily refusing any customer who dares try to pick up a book.

“Blasted Crowley,” he mutters to himself after a particularly persistent woman made off with one of his first editions. “Ridiculous man. Stupid vampire. Oh, I could just—”

He slams his hands down onto the table and manages to swipe one of the half-drunk cups of tea he’d made the day before onto the floor. It shatters onto polished wood flooring, shards of china scattering across the floor, along with the brownish tepid liquid that seeps into the floorboard.

“Oh—” Aziraphale hisses, and then stops himself before he can let out a curse word.

“Right,” he says, teeth gritted, clapping his hands loudly and startling the few patrons that have braved his bad mood. “Out! Everyone out, now!”

He herds the wayward customers out of his shop, ignoring questions and protests, and all but slams the door in their faces, hanging the ‘closed’ sign up and storming back towards the mess on the floor. He wrestles with a broom, and after that proves futile, kneels down to pick up the shards of china in his hands.

He lets out of a hiss of pain as a shard cuts across his finger, a bead of blood dripping down his hand then. He does swear then, loud and angry and utterly frustrated.

“Bloody Crowley,” he mutters as he takes himself to the kitchen, damning Crowley with every step.

He runs his finger under the cold tap, and watches the blood swirl against the water, filling his washing up bowl with pale pink liquid. He stares at it as a flash of a memory of that night they’d shared resurfaces, entranced. He takes a look at the cut on his finger, a tiny little thing.

And then a flicker of an idea begins to form in his mind.

After Aziraphale wraps a plaster around his finger and scoffs down at least half a sleeve of chocolate bourbons, he steps out into the evening air outside of the bookshop.

He doesn't have to wait long.

A familiar voice emerges from nowhere and says, "you shouldn't be out here after dark.”

Crowley appears.

It's different looking at him after what had happened only a few nights before. Aziraphale's heart speeds up, his mouth running dry as he looks at him. He really is beautiful, even hiding his face, his red hair striking against his pale skin.

Aziraphale wants to kiss him just as much as he wants to smack him. 

“You owe me a new mug,” he says, and then looks around the street. “Were you hiding somewhere?”

"No," Crowley says, but his eyes dart away. “I was in the area.”

“Of course you were. Are you coming in?”

Crowley’s eyes flicker back and forth from Aziraphale’s face. “Are you inviting me in?”

“I suppose.”

Aziraphale sweeps into the shop and Crowley follows after. 

He makes a pot of tea without offering any to Crowley, and then sits.

"You're angry with me," Crowley observes.

Aziraphale takes a sip of tea and raises an eyebrow.

"I had to do it," Crowley says. "I had to leave."

Aziraphale frowns, his fingers curling around the handle of his mug. "Did you?"

"You have to understand me," Crowley says, quickly. "Aziraphale—" he seems to choke on his words as he speaks—"I care about you, okay? Which is why I had to leave."

Aziraphale settles the cup of tea down onto the saucer. "I don't follow."

Crowley frowns. "I'm dangerous. I could hurt you. I never should have done... what I did to you, that night. It was wrong of me."

"But I wanted you to. I asked you to," Aziraphale says. "We've been through this."

"But I shouldn't have. Don't you understand, Aziraphale? I could have killed you," Crowley all but spits, his face creasing up in disgust. "I hurt you."

"Actually, I found it rather pleasant. More than pleasant," Aziraphale says. "You didn't hurt me at all. I'm right here."

"I could have hurt you, though. It would have been so easy to lose control, to take more than I needed, more than you could lose," Crowley says. He turns his face, as if he cannot bear to look at Aziraphale. 

"But you didn't," Aziraphale says, slowly sitting up and out of his chair. "And you wouldn't."

He takes a slow step forward, his hands reaching out to touch Crowley's. At Aziraphale's touch, Crowley flinches, and pushes him away.

"You can't touch me," Crowley says. "I'm no good for you. I'm no good full stop. You shouldn't want to be near me."

"But I do want to be near you. I never want to be away from you," Aziraphale says quietly, taking another step closer so that he's inches away from the vampire.

Being this close is dizzying. It's hard to be near Crowley without remembering that night, Crowley's lips on his neck, his teeth in his skin, his hands touching him. He wants to be touched like that again. He wants Crowley's lips on him again. He wants to feel him that close again. He wants to wrap his arms around him and hold him so tight that he would have no choice but to stay.

"You have no idea how difficult it is to leave," Crowley whispers.

"So, don't. Don't leave," Aziraphale whispers. He takes Crowley's hand again, and this time Crowley doesn't flinch, he seems to welcome it, his fingers threading with Aziraphale's, fitting like a puzzle piece that was meant to be together. He places Crowley's hand on his chest, letting him feel his heart beating out of control, hammering like a symphony inside of him.

"Don't leave," he says again, impossibly quiet. "I love you."

Crowley gives a wounded look, his eyes filling with something like guilt. "That's what I was afraid of," Crowley says, a touch of sorrow in his voice.

Then he pulls away from Aziraphale, disappears out of the room and then out of the building altogether, faster than Aziraphale can blink. He backs into his armchair and settles down, a hole opening up in his chest.

* * *

London keeps secrets hidden in its darkest corners.

Creatures lurk in the shadows between the night and the day. A whole other world belonging to nightmares exists in the night. Behind street corners, under storm drains, in the back room of boarded up and abandoned local off-licences. There are shadows everywhere if you know where to look for them. Aziraphale knows exactly where to look.

He’s all too familiar with the feeling of something pricking on the skin of the back of his neck, or when something appears in the corner of his eye but slides out of his vision when he turns to look.

Aziraphale knows about shadows.

And he's aware of the creature following him silently, drifting through the night like fog.

It's not until he reaches the bridge, completely alone and silent except for the sound of water splashing against the bricks, that it catches up with him.

In some light, it could have been beautiful, but Aziraphale catches the weirdness that sticks out against him. It's far too pale, and if Aziraphale pays attention, he can see the sunken eyes and cheeks, the echo of the monster underneath the humanoid figure.

This is how he knows Crowley's wrong about his vampiric pull. Aziraphale can feel the danger that lies under Crowley's skin, he recognizes the threat under allure. He's not hopelessly trapped under Crowley's spell; he's aware of it. He loves him knowing about Crowley's darker edges, loves those edges, loves the danger that lies within, craves it, in fact, yearns for more.

Crowley thinks he needs to protect Aziraphale from that danger, but all Aziraphale wants to do is seek it, and no matter what Crowley tries to do to keep him safe, he's always going to seek it.

Maybe that's why he's walking through dark streets of London at night, alone. Aziraphale walks into danger with open arms and welcomes it in. 

The creature gets closer, Aziraphale can see it from the corner of his eye, even as it tries to dart away. He keeps walking.

And then - a drift of cold air that prickles on the back of his neck, and the creature stands in front of him.

"Not safe to be walking around this place alone," it drawls. "You never know what could be lurking in the night."

Aziraphale knows exactly what kind of things lurk in the night. He has catalogues of the back streets of London, the dark alleyways that no one should walk down alone. He's read the maps and the books, traced them with his fingers while he drinks a cup of cocoa. He knows Soho like the back of his hand, and he knows exactly what hides and where.

"Oh," he says, "and what exactly might that be?"

The creature smiles. It looks like a normal man, but there's something off. There's a glint in this man's smile as he smirks, something cold in the back of his eyes. Aziraphale forces himself to make direct eye-contact even though he wants to flinch. This is not a creature like Crowley. This is not a creature that persists despite his nature, this is not a creature that is good to his core no matter how much they might protest, this is a creature that delights in what they have become, that revels in their monstrous nature, that opens their arms up to the night and flings themselves freely towards the dark.

The smile twists dangerously. "You look particularly ravishing," he says. "Good enough to eat."

"That's terribly forward of you," Aziraphale says, his heartbeat thrumming against his skin. He can feel it hammering in his chest, and he wills himself to stay calm.

"I don't think I could stop myself if I tried," the creature drawls.

Then he lunges, and Aziraphale darts out of the way. Not fast enough. He was never particularly fast for a human, Gabriel had always told him so, and he's certainly no match for supernatural speed. Try as he might to escape, Aziraphale has no way out, and before he knows it, the creature has him pinned against the wall of the bridge.

_Come on, Crowley_, he thinks to himself. _Time to make use of that impeccable timing of yours._

But Crowley is nowhere to be seen. 

The creature bares its teeth, sharp and menacing in the moonlit air, and Aziraphale is all too aware that an encounter with this creature probably wouldn't be as pleasurable as it was with Crowley, and just then, just as the creature opens it jaw wide towards his neck, reminding him of that one awful film about clowns in sewers that Crowley made him watch last year, Aziraphale realises that maybe this wasn't the best idea after all. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, his limbs tensing as he waits for those nasty looking teeth to tear into his neck and then—

"Get. The. Fuck. Away. From. Him."

The voice comes out as a nasty hiss, and then there's a loud thump in front of his eyes and Aziraphale's eyes snap open to see Crowley on top of the creature on the floor, his fingers sinking into the creature's neck.

"You don't touch him," Crowley hisses, "ever."

Relief courses like a drug through Aziraphale's veins and he watches with macabre interest as Crowley's teeth tear into the creature's neck, and it disappears into dust.

The world is quiet again as Aziraphale stands and stares at Crowley on the floor.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Crowley spits.

"I knew you were following me," Aziraphale says. "I knew it." 

"You could have been killed. You _were _almost killed. If I hadn't been there--"

"Exactly. You were there, weren't you?" Aziraphale says, bitterly. "Following me."

"I was checking to make sure you were safe!"

"Well, you've checked now, haven't you? So, you might as well go back to following me in the shadows, instead of just talking to me like a normal person."

"It's not safe to be around me." Crowley grits his teeth. "I have to keep away from you."

"Following me around like a stalker is not keeping away from me."

"I have to protect you!"

"I don't need protecting!"

"I beg to differ!" Crowley snaps. "You almost just walked into your own murder!"

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you'd just talk to me!" Aziraphale says, incredulously. "The only way I can get you to appear is if I put myself in danger so that you can swoop in and rescue me."

"That's not—"

"And I'll keep doing it!" Aziraphale yells, almost hysterically. "I'll keep doing it again and again and again! That's what I'll do if it means I get to see you! If you keep ignoring me, if you keep disappearing into the night and leaving me alone because you think you’re somehow protecting me, I’ll do it again, and again and again. I’ll make you keep rescuing me until you stop disappearing on me!” 

“Don’t you understand?” Crowley growls. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

"I don't want you to keep me safe!" Aziraphale says, exasperated. "I want you to listen to me, and not pretend that you know any better about what's good for my well-being than I do!"

"I _do _know better, you don't know the kind of things that are out there, Aziraphale, if you did, you wouldn't be out here!"

Aziraphale bites his lip, Gabriel swimming to the forefront of his thoughts. But he pushes that guilt down deep, fresh anger bubbling up over everything else, as new frustration rises within him.

"How dare you assume that you know what's good for me?" Aziraphale snaps. "It's not for you to decide. You can't wrap me up in bubble wrap and keep me safe from the world. Either you're in my life, _properly_, or you're not in it at all! And I mean that, Crowley, you can't just follow me around in the hope of fighting off any danger that might come my way. If you're in my life, you're in my life, not stalking me in the shadows."

He's yelling by the end of it, and both of them turn as something rustles in the corner.

"It's not safe here," Crowley says, and Aziraphale almost rolls his eyes.

"Maybe we should have this conversation elsewhere," Aziraphale says, "my bookshop perhaps?"

Crowley looks like he wants to protest, but Aziraphale fixes him with a steely glare that says that Crowley isn't being given a choice in the matter.

"Fine," Crowley says through gritted teeth. "I should walk you home, anyway."

Something sharp edges on the tip of Aziraphale's tongue, but he bites it down and nods. They walk back to Aziraphale's shop together, inches apart. They don't touch, but Aziraphale can feel Crowley next to him, can see the outline of his jaw clenching in the dim light, and the way his fists are clenching and unclenching.

As they reach the door, Aziraphale hangs around on the doorstep. He can feel Crowley hovering, waiting to dart away the moment he sees Aziraphale go safely inside.

"Come in," Aziraphale says. "I'm inviting you in."

"I shouldn't," Crowley says.

Impatience stiffens in Aziraphale's limbs. "Come in or I'll go out and do the same thing the moment your back is turned."

Crowley's tongue clicks against his teeth, and despite the look on his face that says he'd rather do anything else; he steps inside.

As always, Aziraphale breezes into the kitchen, bustling about with the teapot and rummaging in the cupboard to bring out some biscuits. 

"Want one?" he says, offering the tin to Crowley, knowing that he wouldn't take one.

Crowley stands in stony silence, his lips pressed together. Aziraphale puts the biscuit tin back on the table. Clearly, Crowley isn't in the mood for jokes.

He busies himself with making tea instead, stirring gently with a teaspoon. When he turns back, Crowley is still looking at him like he wants to scream.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Aziraphale says, marching purposefully past him into the living room. "If you didn't want me to do something drastic, you should have just talked to me."

Crowley's jaw clicks. "You just—" he begins, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You just don't understand what's good for you."

"Oh, and you do?" Aziraphale says, popping a rich tea into his mouth. "It's funny. I thought I'd managed to get through all these years of my life perfectly well by myself, but clearly you believe that I'm so helpless I need protecting at every step." 

"You don't understand—"

"If you say, _you don't understand_, one more time, I will have to do something inadvisable," Aziraphale says, sharply. "I understand plenty. I understand that you're a vampire. I understand that your thirst is difficult to control. I understand that you want to keep me safe. But you and I have been friends for years, Crowley. Haven't you learned by now that I trust you implicitly?" 

"It's not about you trusting me," Crowley says. "You shouldn't trust me. I'm not good for you."

Aziraphale fixes him with a stare. "Are you going to hurt me?"

"No," Crowley says.

"Then I don't understand what the problem is," Aziraphale says, dipping a biscuit into the tea. 

"The problem is that I can't trust myself. I can't trust that I won't do something to hurt you. If staying away from you keeps you safe, then I'll do it," Crowley says.

"But staying away from me isn't keeping me safe," Aziraphale insists. "Why can't you understand that I simply don't want to be away from you?"

There's a pause as what Aziraphale just said hangs in the air. 

Aziraphale sighs. "If I want this, and you want this, then why can't we just try?"

"I'm dangerous."

Aziraphale closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. How could he possibly explain to Crowley that he would welcome danger with open arms, that he would walk right into it, eyes closed, arms outstretched, if it would mean Crowley would stay by his side?

"Maybe I like danger."

"You don't know what danger is."

Aziraphale thinks of the scars on his back, of Gabriel's voice, of picking out splinters in his hands.

"How do you know?" 

Crowley gives a kind of lopsided, self-deprecating grin. “You’re too good to know danger like this, angel.” 

Aziraphale feels that hot flame of indignance again, directed not only at Crowley but at the pleased flutter his chest gives when he hears that nickname. “Don’t presume that you know what I know or can handle.”

“I can’t even be sure if what you feel for me is real.”

“How can you say that?” Aziraphale says, irritation colouring his voice. “How can you know what’s in my heart? After all I’ve said? After all I’ve proved to you.”

“I don’t doubt that you think you feel a certain way for me—”

“—I do feel a certain way for you, Crowley, don’t you dare tell me that I don’t.”

“How am I supposed to know what you feel for me is real when… this—” he gestures to himself— “is what I am?” 

“I don’t care that you’re a vampire. I’ve never cared about that.”

“You don’t understand,” Crowley says through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale stirs his tea, clinking his spoon against the cup before sinking into his chair, and says mildly, “then explain it to me.”

“We’re designed that way,” Crowley growls. “We’re killing machines. We function to entice poor suckers like you in so that you’re not only lured towards death, but you’ll want it. You’ll beg for it. What you feel for me isn’t real, Aziraphale. It’s the part of you that doesn’t realise that you’re the rabbit caught in a trap.”

Aziraphale sets his teacup down onto the saucer with a loud clink. “Well, quite frankly, that’s ridiculous.”

Crowley sighs in exasperation. “You’re not getting it.”

“What’s there to get? You believe that something about your nature entraps me into some sort of spell where I am utterly incapable of being aware of my own thoughts and feelings. You think that I don’t even know my own mind.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aziraphale flashes him with a steely glare. “I think it’s exactly what you meant. You believe me so weak-willed that I become so entranced by your supernatural wiles that I’m completely incapable of making up my own mind about how I feel and what I—” his voice trails for a moment as he clears his throat. “And what I desire,” he finishes. 

“It’s not that I think that you can’t think for yourself,” Crowley says.

“Isn’t it?” Aziraphale says. 

“You think you feel something for me,” Crowley says, his voice tight. “You think that you… want me, but it’s just the way I’m built. I’m designed to be alluring. I’m made to make you ignore your instincts to run. I’m a killer.”

“If you’ve quite finished telling me how I’m supposed to feel,” Aziraphale snaps, slamming the cup and saucer down onto the coffee table with such force that tea spills onto the wood. “I’m going out. I’ve had enough of you.”

He storms towards the door, reaching for his coat and hat.

“Aziraphale, wait—”

Crowley runs impossibly fast and stands in front of the door.

“You can’t just go out right now,” Crowley says, “they’re still out there, looking for you. Now they’ve got your scent, they’ll be unable to stop the hunt. It’s safe in here, where they can’t come in without an invitation.”

“If you’re going to keep treating me like a helpless animal, I’m going to rescind your invitation too,” Aziraphale says.

“I’m trying to keep you safe!”

“You don’t get it both ways, Crowley!” Aziraphale explodes, slamming his hat back down onto the stand. “You don’t get to pretend to be concerned about my safety and then keep me at arm’s length! I’ve lived long enough on this Earth without your protection, and long enough to know my own mind when it’s made up! So either stay with me, let me be with you in all the ways I want to and know that you do too, or leave, and let me get on with my life without being trapped inside a bookshop while you watch from afar and torture yourself by keeping away from someone you desperately want, who desperately wants you too.”

He looks almost surprised by the impassioned speech he’s just given, shocked by the words that had just come out of his mouth.

Crowley’s mouth hangs open.

Aziraphale’s voice softens after a beat, his grip on his coat loosening. “Maybe I am trapped in some terrible vampiric spell,” he says, “but that doesn’t change that I know how I feel. I want you, Crowley, desperately. You can’t punish yourself for something you can’t help. And I can’t help loving you, with all of my being. So please, just, let yourself want me too.”

He takes a step forward warily.

“I—” Crowley begins, “I don’t know how to stay away from you.”

“So, don’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Crowley says, his voice so low that Aziraphale barely catches the words.

“You’ll only hurt me by leaving,” Aziraphale whispers.

There’s a moment of pause, and then Crowley finally, finally, takes a step forward and wraps Aziraphale up in his arms, pressing him against his chest.

“You shouldn’t want this,” Crowley says, his nose in Aziraphale’s hair, desperately breathing in his scent. “You shouldn’t, it’s wrong, you shouldn’t—”

“But I do. I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my life,” Aziraphale says, solemnly.

“More than crepes and whipped cream?” Crowley says, and the tension breaks, Aziraphale’s shoulders shaking with laughter against his chest.

“Yes, my darling. Even more than crepes.” 

Crowley gives half a smile and half a grimace, holding Aziraphale tight against him. 

“Now, if you’re okay with it,” Aziraphale says, “I really would like to kiss you.”

Crowley doesn’t answer, he just leans forward and kisses Aziraphale like he’s been waiting years to do so.

* * *

Kissing Aziraphale is like kissing the sun.

It’s a warm but powerful feeling, like his whole body is directed towards him, desperate for a little bit of light. His lips are soft - everything about him is soft, actually, compared to Crowley who is all hard edges and sharp angles. He’s soft and warm, and kissing him makes him feel like flying, lighter than air.

It also sets the burn off in the back of his throat, the one he spends every waking moment trying to push down and suppress. He holds his breath around Aziraphale to keep it at bay, but that’s impossible when he’s kissing him, and it wakes like fire within him, a burning need set aflame.

His instincts take over, slamming Aziraphale back and pressing his wrists against the wall, kissing him with all the fervour he can manage. Aziraphale lets out a deeply pleased noise against his lips and he whines as Crowley parts from him. 

“We shouldn’t—” Crowley says breathlessly, “I shouldn’t do this when I’m hungry, I’m going to hurt you—”

“Do it. Take it from me.”

“Aziraphale—”

“I want you to,” Aziraphale says, his eyes flaming brightly. “I want to do that for you - I want to be that for you.”

Crowley wants to protest, but the hunger burns deep within him, and Aziraphale’s looking at him, bright-eyed and swollen-lipped, already looking ruffled and debauched, and Crowley can barely keep himself from diving back down to capture his lips.

“Just promise me one thing,” Aziraphale says, inching back before he can kiss him again.

Crowley stills. “Anything.”

“Don’t…” Aziraphale falters, “don’t leave me again. You know. After.”

Guilt mixes with the hunger in Crowley’s veins.

“I won’t,” he says, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and brushing their foreheads together. “I never should have done that. I promise you I won’t leave you again.”

Aziraphale smiles and it’s one that Crowley’s never seen before, a coil of a smirk that wraps around his face with a twinkle in his eye.

“Then, what are you waiting for?” Aziraphale says, and Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice.

He kisses Aziraphale again and then pulls back, his arms diving under Aziraphale’s knees and pulling up to carry him.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale says breathlessly but lets out a giggle as Crowley lifts him up into the air.

His lips dive down onto Aziraphale's neck, kissing him fiercely as he stumbles up the stairs, carrying him close. Aziraphale giggles again, wrapping his arm around Crowley's shoulders and pressing his face into his neck, holding on tight and laughing as Crowley nearly drops him as he trips up the stairs.

Crowley's heightened senses keep him carefully ensconced in his arms and they make it to the bedroom intact.

He all but throws Aziraphale onto the bed, and Aziraphale lets out another breathless laugh, his body already moving up towards Crowley, always Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.

He pushes him back down against the pillows, his hands reaching for Aziraphale's wrists again, holding him solidly against the bed, diving back down to brush his lips against Aziraphale's neck again. Crowley straddles him, Aziraphale's legs resting in between Crowley's thighs. He's trapped there, between Crowley's body and the bed, and there's no place else he'd rather be.

Crowley's lips are impossibly soft against Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale lifts his chin and tries to convey how much he wants Crowley to just take from him already, tries to show how much he is willing to give.

Crowley doesn't take notice. His fingers trail down Aziraphale's throat, over his bobbing Adam’s apple, down to play with the buttons on his shirt, trailing kisses as he undoes each one.

He presses kisses down his chest and Aziraphale arches his back, his fingers threading through Crowley's red hair.

"Crowley," he whispers, "please, I need—"

He feels Crowley grin against his chest. "What do you need?"

"I need you to feed from me," Aziraphale says, his voice breathy. "I want you to take as much as you need." 

"I will," Crowley says, tracing a finger down Aziraphale's cheek, "but first—"

In one smooth movement, he pulls Aziraphale's belt from his trousers and frees them from the belt loops, his fingers curling around the waistband of Aziraphale's briefs.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks against his stomach.

"Crowley, if you don't, right now, I swear I will—"

Aziraphale feels him smirk against him, the _bastard_, and then his eyes shut as his head keels back against the pillow because Crowley's lips are on him, and he's powerless to do anything but writhe and moan. Crowley's fingers keep a firm grip on him to hold him still, his mouth working that impossible magic that only the man on top of him would be capable of. Aziraphale is boneless, a puddle against the bed, no longer in his body as his toes curl, his mouth hanging open as he lets out a litany of curses, pleas, and Crowley's name.

His mouth is replaced by his hand, and Crowley travels back up his body, trailing kisses up towards Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale opens his eyes, half-lidded, to see Crowley sitting over him, bright red lips, the curl of a smile across his face and hair ruffled everywhere, and oh God, Aziraphale marvels, how is it possible for one creature to be so beautiful?

He lets out another whine as Crowley's fingers card through Aziraphale's hair, his lips finally back on Aziraphale's neck, where they belong.

"Are you ready?" Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale can barely get the confirmation out fast enough; it trips out of him along with several pleas.

Crowley's lips descend onto Aziraphale's neck again, sucking against the pulse point, and then, and then, and then, there it is again, that wonderful sharp spike of pain as his teeth sink into his neck.

He can feel the blood prickling up against his neck, and Crowley makes a guttural noise of need as he begins to drink. This is it, that perfect mix of pleasure and pain as Crowley's mouth and hands work in tandem, and all Aziraphale can do is quiver under Crowley's touch, to beg and plead for more as his back arches, his legs stiffen.

The noises Crowley make against his neck are indecent, and pleasure coils in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach, and before he knows it, he's crying out, calling Crowley's name, and begging for more.

Gradually, his vision begins to blur, and the pleasure fades from a violent roar to a pleasant thrum. The world is warm, the room is bright, and Aziraphale feels so wonderfully relaxed as Crowley drinks from him. He wants to stay in this moment forever, wrapped up in Crowley's arms, helpless and warm.

The moment ends when Crowley pulls away from him, and all at once, it's over. He's barely aware of the stinging pain in his neck, too far out of his body to care.

Crowley's fingers drift through his hair. Aziraphale leans into his touch. It feels like he'll never get enough.

"How are you feeling?" Crowley asks gently as he cleans him up. "Are you in pain?"

He can hear the worry in Crowley's voice.

"I'm alright," Aziraphale says. "Better than alright, darling. That was wonderful."

He can feel Crowley hovering against the bed and when he turns away, he reaches out a hand, instinctively. "Don't leave," he says, "don't leave me."

Crowley turns back, and Aziraphale sees him holding some of his soft tartan pyjamas. "I won't," he says. "Not this time."

The bed dips as Crowley joins him again, and there's an awkward moment while Aziraphale shuffles to put on his pyjamas without getting up, but then they're curled up together on the bed, wrapped up in each other's arms.

Aziraphale's fingers trail down Crowley's cheek, and he can feel the hesitation radiating off Crowley, the guilt pooling in his eyes. 

Aziraphale gently turns Crowley's cheek to look at him. "Don't feel guilty about this," he says. "I wanted this. I can't tell you how much." 

"I can't help it," Crowley says softly. "I feel guilty every time I even think about doing this with you. I should be keeping you safe, not putting you in danger."

"I'm not in danger. Not with you."

"You don't know how hard it is to stay in control."

"I don't want you to stay in control," Aziraphale whispers. "I want you to take all you need."

"I can't. I won't. I can't hurt you." Crowley sighs, his face burying into Aziraphale's hair, breathing him in. "You deserve more than this. You deserve someone who can take care of you."

"Maybe I don't want to be taken care of."

"You deserve someone better than me."

"And yet you're the only one I want," Aziraphale whispers, his fingers taking hold of Crowley's hand and pressing it against his heart.

"You shouldn't want me."

"But I do," he says, and repeats it over and over again with each kiss that he presses to Crowley's lips. "I do, I do, I do."

* * *

Crowley holds Aziraphale as he sleeps, ruffled and exhausted. His mouth is slightly parted as he snores gently, a slight patch of drool forming against his shoulder.

He's beautiful. He's radiant every moment, but there's a gentleness as he sleeps, like he trusts Crowley completely.

This innocent creature should be repelled by him, and yet Aziraphale curls into Crowley as he sleeps, even his subconscious reaching out for him, asking for more.

Every instinct tells Crowley to leave. He has to keep Aziraphale safe, that's the only thing that matters, and staying here is putting him in danger. Crowley's a monster, a creature of the night, he's made to kill and to take, and every moment that he stays around Aziraphale his impulses get harder to keep at bay.

But he can't stay away from him. Aziraphale is the sunshine he craves after spending so long in the dark. He is the anchor that keeps him ashore. He's the thread that is tied around Crowley's heart, and no matter what he does, he'll always be pulled back, pulled back to this bookshop and to this man.

Crowley has no choice, he resolves, as he pulls Aziraphale tighter against him. He'll protect this man with every breath he doesn't need to breathe. He'll fight off his nature and anything else that might get in the way.

"I'll keep you safe, Aziraphale," he whispers aloud into the darkness. "I promise."

Almost as if he'd heard him in his sleep, Aziraphale snuggles closer.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale and Crowley spend a decadent few days lazing in Aziraphale’s bed. The new phase in their relationship had come as shock to both of them. Neither of them had ever had a relationship like this before, and they find that neither of them is willing to give it up. Aziraphale sleeps on Crowley’s chest, comfortably warm even against Crowley’s cold skin, while Crowley runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair.

Crowley, meanwhile, marvels in Aziraphale’s scent. He hadn’t known warmth like this since he’d been turned. The day that vampire had got his venom into him was the day that Crowley had begun to get used to the cold, both physically, and internally. For so long, he’d had a layer of ice around his heart, but now, here with Aziraphale, it’s starting to thaw. 

He noses through Aziraphale’s hair, content just to watch the gentle rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest, and let his arms wrap around Aziraphale’s waist.

That guilt still burns in his chest. There’s part of him still that tells him to run, to leave Aziraphale behind, for good this time. He’d be safer. Shacking up with a vampire is _never _a good plan. It should be number one on every list of survival tips.

But, he thinks, looking down at the man snuggled into his chest, it would be far worse to leave him behind. Crowley can protect him. The pain of being away from him would be just too much to bear. It’s selfish, but vampires have never been known for their selflessness, Crowley reasons to himself.

On their third day of lounging, Aziraphale yawns and sits up in bed. “Do you think we perhaps ought to get up at some point?” he asks. 

From under the covers, Crowley’s arm slinks up and pulls Aziraphale back down to join him amongst the bedsheets, a curl of a smile across his face. “Why, when we have everything we need in here?”

He dives down to pepper kisses across Aziraphale’s bare chest, earning a contented laugh. 

“Well, I know you don’t need human food, but I actually need to eat at some point.” 

“I’ve been bringing you food!”

“You bringing me biscuits and making tea does not count as a proper meal,” Aziraphale says. “And I think there are crumbs all over the bed. Oh, don’t pout at me, dear. We had to get up at some point.” 

Crowley pouts anyway but allows Aziraphale to pull back the covers and head towards the shower to clean up. He wrinkles his nose, his vampiric sense of smell a little overloaded. Okay, perhaps getting out of bed wasn’t a bad idea.

He follows a freshly showered Aziraphale down into the bookshop, and watches as he putters around mildly, dealing with three days’ worth of post – which, to be fair, is mostly junk - and settles down behind Aziraphale, resting his arms across his shoulders.

“Anything interesting?” he asks, taking a quick nip at Aziraphale’s ear.

“Mostly rubbish,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley watches him tuck a bright white envelope into his pocket.

“Something important?” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, shifting away from Crowley. “I’ll recycle it later.”

Crowley stretches his arms above his head. “What’s on the agenda today?

“Opening up the shop I suppose,” Aziraphale says. “Although, there’s this new restaurant in Soho that I’ve been meaning to try. I thought maybe I’d go there for lunch. Care to come with?”

“I don’t eat.”

Aziraphale fixes him with a look. “I’d still enjoy your company.”

“Is this a… date?” Crowley asks.

“You people go on dates, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, “or do you just take your paramours back to your secret lair so you can have your wicked way with them? I’m not opposed, but it really would be nice to see some sunlight this side of Tuesday.”

Crowley snorts. “We can go on a date, angel, whatever you like.”

It’s worth it just for the brilliant smile that lights up on Aziraphale’s face.

* * *

Watching Aziraphale eat is a delight.

Food had long ago become less of a pleasure and more a form of torture for Crowley - at least until Aziraphale, that is - but watching Aziraphale eat is a pleasure all of its own.

Aziraphale knows how to enjoy food. Food isn’t just a necessity to him, it’s an _experience._ He savours each bite and makes so many delighted noises that Crowley wants to lean across the table and kiss him soundly. He’d be content to buy Aziraphale everything on the menu and just watch him eat.

As Aziraphale finishes his meal, dabbing his mouth daintily, he asks, “what do we… _do_ now?”

Crowley stretches back in the chair. “Whatever you like.”

“No, I mean. You and me. What do we do? How is this going to work? Will we live together?” Aziraphale says and then squints. “Actually, I’m not sure where you live now.”

Crowley thinks about his Mayfair flat, square, grey, and so very un-Aziraphale it’s hard to fit the two together in his head.

“Y’know,” he says, “around.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says almost suspiciously, but he doesn’t press. “I just wondered... how do you and I... _work?” _

Ah. So_ that’s_ what he’s getting at.

A smile flutters across Crowley’s face. “I imagine like every other human couple, just with a little extra,” he says, and then his expression shifts, “which you are _far _more okay with than you should be.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and he takes a bite of food in a practically indecent way. “And how should I be reacting?”

Crowley’s fingers curl around the table leg. “You should be terrified.”

Aziraphale dabs his mouth carefully with a napkin, every last crumb on the plate gone. His foot meets Crowley’s under the table, and he looks across at him, a glint in his eye. “Perhaps you should do something scary, then.”

It takes everything in Crowley not to leap across the table and take him right there, but he makes it at least until they return to the bookshop, and Aziraphale purposefully turns the sign to _closed. _

Crowley pounces before Aziraphale can get a word in edgeways, his hands curling through his hair while he kisses him soundly. Aziraphale’s hands snake around Crowley’s waist, his chin lifting to deepen the kiss.

He takes hold of Aziraphale, hoists him up and pushes him back until his legs bump against the counter. Aziraphale lets out a giggle, his forehead pressing against Crowley’s chest.

“Crowley,” he says, breathlessly, “the curtains. People will see.”

In less than a second, Crowley whips around the shop and closes all of the curtains before returning to Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale flashes a half-lidded smile. “Vampire powers are so useful...” he whispers, before winding his arms back around Crowley, his fingers threading through his hair.

Crowley pushes him back against the counter until Aziraphale is lying flat across it, his legs in between his.

Aziraphale is warm and soft beneath him, and Crowley can feel his heartbeat beneath his fingers, hammering hard against his skin, so _alive, _and all Crowley can do is dive down and kiss the pulse point on Aziraphale’s neck, hearing him whine beneath him.

Aziraphale arches up towards him and Crowley just keeps kissing and kissing as his hands fumble at Aziraphale’s collar, pulling away that _ridiculous _bowtie and tugging at the buttons. He undoes them one by one, his lips trailing down his chest, until he’s sitting upright over his legs, while Aziraphale is splayed, shirtless across the desk. His mouth hangs open, his hair is ruffled, his lips swollen.

He’s the most beautiful sight Crowley has ever seen.

And then he’s diving back down, his hand sliding downwards, and Crowley’s letting out a breath, his mouth hot and hard on Aziraphale’s body, and Aziraphale’s whining beneath him, begging for more, and Crowley’s fingers are curling around the desk, his arms bracing and—

And then the desk snaps in half.

The crunch of splintered wood fills the air, and there’s a yelp as Aziraphale and Crowley crash into the floor, half-clothed, and covered in dust.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley gasps, picking himself up from the floor and looking down to where Aziraphale is crumpled up. “Are you hurt?”

Aziraphale is very still for a few long horrible seconds, but then he gives a cough, gently pulling himself up from the floor. Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s arms, his touch as light as he can make it, easing him up. He brushes dust out of his face with one deft hand.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, softly.

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything for a few moments and worry builds in Crowley’s chest, before Aziraphale bends his head against Crowley’s chest and _giggles. _

“Aziraphale.”

He keeps giggling for an inordinate amount of time.

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s arms wrap around Crowley’s waist, his chin pressing against his chest. “Yes, dear?”

“You’re – I just – we just broke a _desk.” _

“I know,” Aziraphale says, and then presses his face back into Crowley’s chest to let out another giggle.

“It’s not funny!” Crowley says, incredulously.

“Why not?” Aziraphale asks like it’s not _obvious. _“At least I won’t have to worry about customers for a little while.”

He nods his head towards where the cash register had fallen and cracked against the floorboards. 

“You could have been _hurt.” _

Aziraphale steps away, rolling his eyes. “But I wasn’t.”

“But you _could have been.” _

He gives a small sigh, and just like that, the spell is broken. His shoulders tense like he’s only just realised he’s half-naked, and he busies himself with the buttons on his shirt. Crowley just hovers, until Aziraphale fixes him with a look.

“Crowley,” he says, eyes soft. “It’s just a desk.” 

But all Crowley can do is stare at the mess on the floor.

“Right,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. “Think I’ll make some tea.” 

He pads towards the kitchen, leaving Crowley staring at the counter that had been practically torn in two.

_That could have been Aziraphale._

He’s left in the empty bookshop, mess on the floor, curtains closed, and the silence feels too loud for Crowley to bear. Once again, he’s had a sobering reminder about the extent of his vampire powers. Doesn’t matter how many years it’s been since he’d been bitten, he’s never quite managed to get used to how strong he is.

Human Crowley couldn’t have broken a table. Human Crowley couldn’t have _lifted _a table, let alone snap it in two with a flick of his wrist. 

But now there was all this power in his veins, too much speed than he knew how to deal with, and oh, so much damage that he could inflict – and _had _inflicted, he reminds himself miserably – without ever meaning to.

For a few days, he’d let himself forget. He let himself be tempted by Aziraphale’s soft skin and coy smiles and wide innocent eyes and he’d been unable to stop himself from falling into his arms. The days he’d spent just lying in bed with Aziraphale, indulging in pleasures he’d hadn’t let himself have since he was human, was nothing short of bliss.

But he is a monster underneath it all, an abomination, a creature that shouldn’t exist, and Aziraphale, lovely Aziraphale, is light and wonder and everything that is good and should be protected.

He didn’t deserve someone like Aziraphale.

It’s just a broken desk, but it could have been something much worse. Crowley hovers, staring at the desk, staring at the door.

“Don’t you dare think about leaving me again.”

Crowley looks up.

Aziraphale’s hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the bookshop, his eyes cold and hard.

“I wasn’t,” Crowley says, but it’s a lie.

“You were,” Aziraphale says, and takes a few steps forward.

He comes close, gently pressing his head into Crowley’s chest. Crowley doesn’t pull away.

“Promise me,” he whispers, “promise me that you won’t leave.” 

“You’re going to end up getting hurt,” Crowley says.

“I don’t care.”

“_I_ do.”

“Promise me you won’t leave,” Aziraphale says again, looking up at him with those big blue eyes, like an ocean that Crowley’s desperate to drown in.

He’s warm in Crowley’s chest, warmer than he’s felt in years. Crowley grimaces, damning himself to hell and back.

“I promise,” he whispers and shrouds Aziraphale in his arms. 

* * *

Despite his reservations, Crowley stays.

He hates himself for it. Every day that he’s around Aziraphale is another day that Aziraphale is in danger. It wouldn’t take much. One drinking session where he can’t keep control. One mishap where he can’t keep his strength in check.

Not to mention that his presence puts him in danger from every single other supernatural creature that might want a taste. Mates are a dangerous thing – doubly so if your mate is a _human. _Supernatural creatures are notoriously territorial and jealous. All it’d take is for one particularly covetous vampire to decide they want what Crowley has, then Aziraphale would be in danger.

...Which is all the more reason for him to stay.

His heart belongs with Aziraphale, and no matter how hard he’s tried to keep himself away, his heart is tied to this bookshop and this man. He’ll keep coming back every single time, just for one more taste of him; this fussy, stubborn, _wonderful _human.

And so Crowley devotes himself as Aziraphale’s protector, keeping a close guard on the shop while Aziraphale sleeps, lingering around the supernatural haunts at night to make sure no word of their relationship had got out into the world, keeping close, at all times.

And for a few weeks, it works. In fact, it’s almost bliss.

In one of their many cuddle sessions, Crowley trails a kiss down Aziraphale’s spine, delighting in the way he lets out a shiver, gives a contented sigh under his touch. Aziraphale’s skin is soft where Crowley’s lips brush – that’s how Aziraphale is, Crowley thinks to himself with a happy sigh – soft, and gentle and untouched by the demons that Crowley’s become so used to.

His fingers follow his lips, and that’s when he notices them. A slash, a rough mark across Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. Crowley blinks, shifting back so he can get a better look, and sure enough; there are two long scars across Aziraphale’s back, faint, but definitely there.

Crowley’s brow furrows, his fingers tracing lightly across the faint, slightly purple mark. “Angel,” he says, “where did you get those scars?”

Aziraphale hums faintly, too out of it to notice that Crowley has spoken. And then he says, “oh,” and for a moment, he feels Aziraphale tense beneath him, but the feeling is gone just as soon as it was there.

“An accident in childhood,” Aziraphale says, covering the hand Crowley has on his shoulder with his own. “A slight mishap with an over-excitable animal.” 

“It looks like it hurt.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I barely remember it.”

Crowley leans down and kisses them gently, enjoying the way that Aziraphale shifts, letting out a faint sigh.

He winds his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder.

* * *

The following weeks are nothing short of perfect for Aziraphale. Despite the close eye he keeps on Crowley – who _still_, after all of Aziraphale’s coaxing, insinuating and downright begging, seems unwilling to do anything that might possibly bring him to harm – the two of them find a rhythm to their days unlike anything Aziraphale had enjoyed before.

He spends his days in much the same way he did before: puttering around the bookshop, discovering new restaurants, running errands, and dodging his customers. But at night, everything had changed in a way that was more delightful than he could possibly have imagined.

He spends the nights in Crowley’s arms, breathlessly gasping his name as the vampire’s lips find new inches of skin, setting him alight in ways he hadn’t thought were possible. In Crowley’s arms, he’s boneless, just a heartbeat hammering against skin, nothing but a set of moans and gasps. It’s an indecently decadent feeling.

He's never felt as safe with anyone as he does with Crowley. Crowley would never hurt him. Crowley would never use Aziraphale's trust against him, not like - not like others would.

Aziraphale's days and nights become pure delight, and all is well and good with the world.

Until the bodies start showing up.


	4. Chapter 4

The day Aziraphale and Crowley’s perfect bubble of domestic bliss pops starts slowly.

Aziraphale had never been a late sleeper before Crowley had come along. Of all of Gabriel’s habits and routines that he’d happily shaken off, having a strict morning routine had not been one of them. Before Crowley, he’d woken up at six-thirty on the dot every morning, ready to begin the day.

Since Crowley had waltzed into his life and into his bed, Aziraphale had begun to adore mornings. His alarm had long since been forgotten. The first time it had gone off, Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, tucked him close to his chest and told him, “five more minutes, angel,” and who was Aziraphale to fight that? Crowley’s arms were so wonderfully safe and warm, after all.

Not to mention, Aziraphale thinks he might do anything just to keep Crowley calling him angel.

And thus, his mornings had now become a languid affair, nestled into Crowley’s arms, watching the sun gradually flow through the cracks in between the curtains into the room, dust catching on the air.

Sometimes he’d wake up to find Crowley already awake, his hand cupping his face, stroking his cheek and looking down at him with such love and wonder it made Aziraphale’s insides turn to jelly.

Mornings are his new favourite time of the day, and this morning was no exception.

He wakes to Crowley pressing gentle kisses onto his head, his nose in his hair, and his eyes flutter open to meet Crowley’s, golden and bright. A grin breaks out across his face.

“Morning, angel.”

_Angel._ Aziraphale’s heart does a little swoop.

“Good morning, dear.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Crowley says. “You should go back to sleep. You look pretty when you sleep.”

“You didn’t wake me,” Aziraphale says, rolling over to press his face into Crowley’s chest.

Crowley’s fingers find their way to Aziraphale’s hair, stroking gently, and Aziraphale has to fight off the urge to purr.

A few more moments pass by, Aziraphale just enjoying the time in Crowley’s arms, before he lets out a sigh.

“I suppose I should get up and open the shop.”

“Why bother?” Crowley says, a grin flickering across his face. “It’s not as if you’re going to sell anything.”

“I might,” Aziraphale says, indignantly.

“You do everything you can to not sell anything.”

“I do not.”

“Yesterday I saw you leap over the counter to tell a poor old lady that the vintage Dickens she had in her hands was not for sale,” Crowley says with a snort.

“Well, it was Dickens! Be a crime to sell it to her. Did you see the way she was handling it? Disastrous,” Aziraphale grumbles in such an offended tone that Crowley rolls over and lets out a long laugh.

“Why you bother calling it a bookshop when you never bother to sell anything is beyond me,” Crowley says with a huff of a laugh.

“If you’re going to tease me, I’m going to leave,” Aziraphale says, primly.

He slides out of bed, ignoring Crowley’s whine of “Aziraphaaaaaale,” and heads towards his chest of drawers to pull on a clean shirt.

Downstairs, he opens the shop. It’s well in the morning by this point, almost afternoon, but Aziraphale had never kept a consistent opening schedule anyway. 

He putters about the shop, trailing his fingers across a shelf of books and wonders briefly about going back upstairs and re-joining Crowley in bed.

The streets outside are strangely quiet for a weekday in London, and Aziraphale’s shop is quiet at the best of times, but today, it’s deadly silent. Something begins to tug at his chest, this innate feeling in the pit of his stomach that something, somewhere is wrong.

If there was one thing Aziraphale had learned from Gabriel, it was that the gut feeling in the pit of his stomach, the alarm bells that ring in his head, that gut feeling that something is awry is rarely wrong.

Goosebumps prickle along his arms.

“Crowley,” he says into the air, voice level.

He’d learned quickly that he didn’t need to raise his voice to call Crowley. Crowley’s supernatural hearing could find Aziraphale’s voice from wherever he was in the building, even if he was speaking quietly.

Crowley appears at the bottom of the stairs a second later. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to attempt to explain that off feeling that had suddenly come over him, when a loud, high pitched scream rings out through the air outside the bookshop.

Aziraphale and Crowley freeze, staring at each other.

“Stay here,” Crowley says, sweeping out of the bookshop.

Aziraphale stares at the space Crowley had just dematerialised from, rolls his eyes, and then follows the vampire out into the open.

* * *

It doesn’t take him long to find the source of the scream.

In an alleyway, not five metres away from a shop, Aziraphale finds Crowley, looking very worried indeed and trying to cover something up on the floor.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice strained, “go home where it’s safe.”

His fingers reach out to curl around Aziraphale’s wrist, pushing him away from what’s on the floor, but it’s no use, Aziraphale can already see what Crowley’s trying to cover up on the floor.

It’s a woman.

She’s completely still on the floor, blank eyes staring up at the two of them. Her skin is impossibly pale, ghost-white, and her mouth is stuck in the form of her last hollow scream.

She’s been completely drained of blood.

It’s then that Aziraphale notices the source of the scream he’d heard before, a second woman keeled over on the ground, her hands shaking.

Aziraphale bats Crowley’s hand away and kneels down towards the woman. “It’s alright,” he says softly when the woman shrinks away from him. “I’m not going to hurt you. Can you tell me what happened?

“I – I was taking a shortcut,” her voice stammers, “she was just lying here. I almost tripped over her. I called the police.”

Aziraphale and Crowley share a grim look.

Sure enough, a few moments later they hear a screech of sirens. The woman shivers.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, kindly. “Help is coming. How about we get out of this alleyway?”

He helps the woman up from the floor. When he looks up again, Crowley has disappeared.

The police arrive, along with the ambulance. Paramedics put an orange towel over the woman’s shoulders while she’s submitted to question after question. Aziraphale is questioned too, and he tries to give the police all the details he can, biting his lip.

He knows exactly what did this and judging by the way he had melted away into the shadows, Crowley does too.

“How long do you think the body’s been there?” he asks a police officer whose expression was particularly grim.

“Can’t tell you anything about that, sir. Just keep indoors for the time being, and we’ll give you a call if we need to ask a few more questions,” he says.

It’s a clear dismissal, but Aziraphale hides behind one the cars and hears another set of officers talking.

“Forensics said it wasn’t fresh,” one of them says, “certainly didn’t happen in the last 24 hours. Could have been there for anything up to a week.”

After hearing that, Aziraphale bites his lip and disappears back towards the bookshop.

Crowley appears as soon as he walks through the door, a wretched look on his face.

“Aziraphale,” he says, his hands curling around Aziraphale’s arms. “You have to know this wasn’t me. I didn’t do this.”

Aziraphale places a hand onto Crowley’s chest. “I know,” he says softly.

But that doesn’t seem to do much to assuage the strained look on Crowley’s face. 

“Someone’s fed in Soho,” Crowley says, his voice hollow. “Not just fed. Drained them dry.”

Aziraphale bites the bottom of his lip, his mind wandering to past days. Gabriel. Wood in his fingers. Heart pounding against his chest. He shakes that thought away.

“Who would—” Aziraphale begins, and swallows, his throat dry. “Do you know of anyone who would... do something like this?”

“I know several who are capable,” Crowley says. “But they wouldn’t... they wouldn’t risk doing something like this. It’s against code.”

Despite everything, Aziraphale’s eyes flicker up in amusement. “There’s a vampire code?”

“Yes, it’s do something dumb to reveal the secret, and Beelzebub rips your head off,” Crowley says.

“Who’s Beelzebub?”

“It’s not important,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale feels a faint spark of irritation. “What’s more important is that whoever did this did it a few feet away from your bookshop.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“What’s that got to—” Crowley says, incredulously, “Aziraphale. It’s a message.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “What message? And who from?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley says tightly. “Someone who’s seen us together. Someone who saw that vampire from before. Someone who knows about you and me.”

“Preposterous.”

“Aziraphale.” This time Aziraphale can hear the sharpness in Crowley’s tone, the razor-sharp irritation in his voice. “You don’t know vampires the way I do. You don’t know what they’re capable of... what they might do.”

Aziraphale scowls, snatching his arm away from Crowley and storming into the kitchen. “Kindly don’t patronise me. I understand vampires perfectly well.”

He opens the cupboard with such force he almost pulls the door of its hinges, yanking down a box of teabags.

“If you understood vampires,” Crowley says, “you’d know how much danger you were in.”

“This again!” Aziraphale says, all but throwing his arms in the air in frustration. “Everything. Everything with you revolves around wrapping me in bubble wrap because you think I can’t handle things.”

“It’s not about you not handling things, it’s about keeping you safe!”

Aziraphale slams the teapot down onto the counter. “I didn’t realise I’d been doing such a terrible job, all these years I managed to survive without you!”

“You didn’t have vampires to contend with then!”

Indignation, irritation, and annoyance burn in Aziraphale’s chest. How was it that one vampire could be so utterly infuriating?

He takes a breath and does what he always does when he finds himself getting a little frustrated. He pours a cup of tea.

After taking a long sip and then giving a sigh and rolling back his shoulders, Aziraphale looks at Crowley again.

“Can we at least wait before you lock me up in a safe house?” Aziraphale says, his voice slightly calmer. “No vampire can come in here without being invited, yes?”

“Yes, but it’s not fool proof,” Crowley says. He still has a desperate look on his face, but it’s not as pronounced as it was before.

“Still. It’s enough for now,” Aziraphale says, and then lifts his finger before Crowley can protest. “We should at least wait until we have more information before we panic. For all we know, this has nothing to do with you or me.”

“It’s too big of a coincidence not to,” Crowley insists.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, taking Crowley’s hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m safe. I’m here. As long as I don’t take any risks, I’ll be fine.”

Crowley laces their fingers together and draws Aziraphale close. “I worry.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest. “But I promise you, nothing is going to happen to me. Nobody’s going to take me away from you without a fight.”

Crowley holds him tight, and they cling together for the rest of the day.

* * *

One body turns into two. Which turns into three. Which turns into four.

Aziraphale and Crowley watch the news, sitting on Aziraphale’s sofa and staring at his seldom-used tv screen, where a very serious looking newsreader speaks.

_“—a spate of murders in Central London, in which all victims have been completely exsanguinated. Residents in the Soho area are advised to stay inside and keep their windows and doors locked at all time. Never go outside alone if possible and check in on all friends and family members._”

Aziraphale sits straight-backed against the sofa, his hands in his lap. Crowley chews on a patch of skin around his thumb.

“Aziraphale...”

“I know, Crowley. I know.”

“Every single one of them. Centred on your shop.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, tightly.

“You have to leave Soho. London, preferably.”

“Absolutely not.” 

Crowley looks at him, eyes popping out of his head. “Aziraphale. I don’t know what’s going on, but someone out there is targeting you, or trying to tell us something, or, hell, I don’t know, but what I do know is there have been four murders, all around your shop, and you can’t tell me that you’re not in danger.”

“I’m not leaving Soho. I’ve lived and worked here for most of my life. I’m not going to give it up now.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “You’re not safe here,” he repeats. “You can’t stay here.”

“If we’re to assume that your vampire friend—”

“—whoever they are, they’re not my friend,” Crowley growls.

“If we’re to assume that this rogue vampire is after me – which we still don’t know for sure, by the way—” Aziraphale shoots a glare in Crowley’s direction— “me leaving isn’t exactly going to stop them, is it?”

“It’d delay them. We’d have time – time to figure out somewhere else to go—”

“No,” Aziraphale says, sharply. “I won’t be forced out of my home. And I’m definitely not going to spend the rest of my life on the run, looking over my shoulder.”

“But—”

“—And what if I do run? Regardless of whether I leave or not, regardless of whether said vampire is after me or not – the people of Soho are already in danger,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a fire in his gaze. “I won’t have it. I won’t have people suffering on my watch. Too many people have died already.”

His lifts his chin in utter defiance and Crowley knows he’s been beaten.

As much as he gravitates towards keeping Aziraphale safe at all costs, this is the exact spark that made Crowley fall in love with this human in the first place. That stubborn righteousness, the need to do good.

He swallows, the urge to take Aziraphale away from here and keep him safe at all costs still running through his veins as he takes a breath.

“What do you want to do, then?”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “Fancy a spot of vampire hunting?”

* * *

Aziraphale closes the bookshop for the day and pulls out the coffee table from his living room, placing a large map across it.

“So,” he says, circling places on the map with a felt-tip pen, “the bodies were found here, here, here, and here. All of them only a few streets away from my bookshop and all of them completely drained for blood. All of them happened within a two-week period.”

“It’s more than one,” Crowley said in a hollow voice. “We couldn’t take that much blood in that short amount of time.”

Aziraphale looks up. “There’s a limit?”

“Too much of anything is a bad thing. Humans can drink too much water. We can drink too much blood.”

“What would happen?”

“We wouldn’t be able to process it fast enough. It’d essentially be like poisoning ourselves,” Crowley explains.

“Right,” Aziraphale says, looking back down at the map, slightly paler than before. “So, it’s more than one.”

“Yup,” Crowley says, popping the ‘p’.

“Do vampires usually... work together?”

“There are some who take to groups. Beelzebub – they like to think of themselves as the vampire prince. They’ve got several followers. They like to – well, they’d call it keeping the peace, but if I were to say anything, I’d say they like control. When vampires disappear – it’s usually Beelzebub’s business,” Crowley says. “But this isn’t like them. Beelzebub is all about keeping the secret from humans, keeping us in the shadows. This is too loud. Too likely to reveal the secret. Honestly, I’d bet that old Beez already has their eye on everything going on here.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes light up. “Maybe they’ll know something.”

Crowley groans, dropping down onto Aziraphale’s sofa and covering his eyes. “Angel, no. I can’t talk to Beelzebub.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say that we don’t have the greatest relationship,” Crowley says, with a grumble.

A hint of a grin flashes across Aziraphale’s face like he’s just uncovered the juiciest of gossip. “Vampire politics,” he says, and sounds far too fascinated for his own good. “Tell me all about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” Crowley says. “They wanted me to join their following, I wasn’t... I didn’t want to join.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale presses.

Crowley gives a sigh, rubbing his eyes. “They feed on humans,” he admits. “I don’t - I’d decided long ago that wasn’t the life I wanted. I had to reduce the damage this life causes. Beelzebub doesn’t agree.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, placing his hand on Crowley’s knee, looking at him with a fondness that is unbearable.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You know, Crowley, no matter what you think of yourself, you really are—”

Whatever he was about to say gets muffled by Crowley slamming a cushion into Aziraphale’s face.

“Nope! Don’t say it!”

Aziraphale pulls the pillow way. “You really are the nicest—”

“No!” Crowley shoves the cushion back in Aziraphale’s face. “Don’t say it!”

“—the kindest—”

“I am not!”

Aziraphale pulls the cushion away, giggling as Crowley wrestles him onto the floor. “Downright the most agreeable vampire I’ve ever met.”

“I’m the only vampire you’ve ever met,” Crowley grouches.

Aziraphale shifts, gives a cough, and sits up, looking suddenly winded.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, quickly, “I didn’t mean to get too rough, I forget my own strength, here—”

He helps Aziraphale up off the floor, helping him back up onto the sofa

“Thank you, dear, but you weren’t rough at all. It’s fine,” he says. “Tell me more about Beelzebub’s group. I thought you said they didn’t approve of hurting humans.”

“Oh, they don’t care about hurting humans,” Crowley says, a touch of malice in his voice. “In fact, they take great pride in it. They just want to keep it a secret as much as possible. Vampires are strong, but we’re fairly low in number. Imagine if every human in London got wind of us. You’d get slayers like Gabriel Hawthorne running wild, and we’d be extinct before a year was out.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Gabriel Hawthorne?” 

“Ruthless guy. Most notorious slayer the underworld has ever seen. You do not want to get on his bad side, trust me.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says, pressing his lips together.

Crowley narrows his eyes. “You alright? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“I’m perfectly well. I must not have eaten enough today,” Aziraphale says, pulling himself to his feet and squirrelling away to the kitchen in that kind of adorable anxious half-run half-walk that he’s prone to.

Crowley gives a soft smile when Aziraphale returns, clutching a half-opened packet of biscuits, joining Crowley on the sofa.

“Right,” Aziraphale says, spraying biscuit everywhere as he tries to eat with his mouth full, which strikes Crowley as quite unusual for someone who usually likes to savour his food. Clearly, this vampire draining business has caused a stir. “We could start by trying to trace a pattern between the victims. If there’s a correlation, maybe we can figure out where the vampire – or vampires – will strike next. If we can figure that out – why are you looking at me like that?”

Crowley must have been staring. He shakes his head, a fond smile playing at his lips, “you’ve read too many detective novels.”

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkles in that delightfully affronted way of his. “I read a perfectly average amount, thank you. In any case, it may well come in handy here.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing, angel. Keep going.”

“Right. If we can figure out a pattern, work out where or who the next victims will be, maybe we can set up a trap. Then we can catch them in the act.”

“Solid plan,” Crowley says, “and I can also ask around a bit, see if someone on the network knows anything.”

“The network?”

Crowley rubs the back of his neck. “I’m... in contact with a few of us across London. Some of them working in Beelzebub’s lair. I can talk to them and see if any of their lot have gone rogue.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “You have vampire friends?”

“I wouldn’t call them friends. Acquaintances, more like.”

“Well, sounds like we’ve got something of a plan,” Aziraphale says, a hopeful smile on his face. “If we work quickly, maybe we can put a stop to this before there’s any more bloodshed.”

Crowley doesn’t feel nearly as optimistic as Aziraphale looks, but he puts on a smile anyway and nods.

* * *

Late that night, Crowley finds himself slouched in the dark, back resting against the wall in a dark alleyway deep in the heart of London, waiting for another creature of the night to melt out of the shadows to visit him.

It had been pulling teeth getting himself out of the door, and Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the back of his head to the brick wall, remembering the conversation.

“We’ll go out tonight then,” Aziraphale said, enthusiastically. “To find one of your vampire friends.”

“Not my friends, and none of this ‘we’,” Crowley said. “You are absolutely not going.”

Aziraphale scowled. “I told you, Crowley, this is my home, and I’m going to protect it in whatever way that I can. I’m not going to sit around in my bookshop while you do all the work.”

“You’re not, but I have to keep you safe in anywhere that I can. Letting you come with me would be the same as offering you up to a hungry vampire as a snack, and that is not going to happen, trust me.”

He should have known that it wouldn’t go down well.

“You can’t keep doing this to me, Crowley. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to keep me safe.”

“Have you even considered the implications of what might happen if I show up with a human in tow? Friendly human and vampire relationships aren’t exactly encouraged, let alone what... whatever if it is that you and I have,” Crowley said. “If word got back to Beelzebub... who knows what they’d do.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, all traces of anger and irritation melting away from his face. “I didn’t realise that you’d be in danger too. Sorry. I never should have suggested it.”

Crowley sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

Still, Crowley thinks, it doesn’t really matter how they got there, what matters is that Aziraphale is safe at home, away from any stray vampire that might mistake him for a tasty meal. 

He senses them before they arrive; his skin pricks and his eyes snap open, a slight chill running down his spine. And then there’s the smell that wafts out the darkness, a familiar smell, like himself.

Two figures emerge from the darkness. Crowley spots the smoke first, wafting into the night air in a mesmerising pattern, then he sees the bright light of the end of a cigarette, and then, finally, two faces, belonging to two people Crowley would have rather not had dealings with again: Hastur and Ligur.

“Crowley,” Hastur says in a low growl, his voice like gravel.

“Hi guys,” Crowley says, giving a little wave, fluttering his fingers. “How’s it going?”

“What business did you have in summoning us?” Hastur says.

“Have you come to join Beelzebub at last?” says Ligur.

Right. All business with these two, he’d forgotten that. 

“More like trying to find some information,” Crowley says, slouching back against the wall, hands in his pockets.

Ligur spits onto the floor. “We don’t deal information to outsiders.”

“Right. ‘Course not,” Crowley says. “I suppose you’ve seen the news, then? Does Beelzebub even let you have a TV?”

“What is it you want, Crowley?” Hastur snaps.

“Nasty business, what’s going on in Soho at the moment. Drained bodies. Beelzebub knows about that, right?”

“Lord Beelzebub knows everything that goes on in this city,” Hastur growls. “You insult them by assuming otherwise.”

“Right. Of course.” Crowley nods. “I just thought, with all this press it’s been getting – they’ve been calling it a serial killing, all over national human news, you know – that Beelzebub would be doing something about it. But you have every faith in them, right? They wouldn’t lead you astray.”

“Of course not,” Hastur grunts, but Crowley doesn’t miss the way Ligur shifts, his eyes dotting away from Crowley.

“Right. Because Beelzebub knows exactly what they’re doing,” Crowley says.

“You dare question them?” Hastur hisses, darting forward.

Crowley flattens himself against the wall, his hands drifting up in surrender.

“How are we supposed to know that you haven’t got something to do with it?” Ligur says. “Always thought you were up to no good. Now you turn up here, asking questions, questioning Beelzebub’s leadership. How do we know that you haven’t got something to do with this?”

“Alright boys, calm down,” Crowley says, and then his voice shifts, changing into a more serious tone. “All I want to know is if there’s anything I need to know about in case I end up getting jumped by a territorial vampire who’s had too much to drink. Just tell me if there’s something going on that I don’t know about, and then we can all go on our merry way.”

Hastur and Ligur share a look. 

“We have nothing we want to share with you,” Hastur says in disgust, and dematerialises. 

Crowley expects Ligur to do the same, but instead, he hovers, looking at Crowley with narrowed eyes.

He takes a sniff in the air.

“You smell funny,” Ligur says, “like you’ve been spending too much time with a human.”

Crowley swallows, thinking of Aziraphale back home, thinking of all the nights he’d spent waking up in Aziraphale’s bed, thinking about how he’d begged him to keep safe.

“Gotta keep up appearances,” Crowley says. “Humans aren’t loners. Can’t have them get too suspicious.”

Ligur nods but keeps a suspicious eye trained on Crowley. “We’ve had a few deserters,” Ligur admits.

“People have left Beelzebub’s coven?” Crowley says, voice high in surprise.

That was unheard of. Usually, you didn’t leave Beelzebub’s inner circle without a stake through your back.

“There’s been some unrest. People don’t trust that Beelzebub knows what they’re doing anymore,” Ligur says.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “And I take it you’re one of them?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Ligur says, in a low voice. “Not unless you want your throat ripped out.”

With that one last threat, Ligur disappears into the night too, and Crowley is left standing in the dark.

* * *

Crowley spends the next few nights staking out Beelzebub’s lair.

Beelzebub had staked their claim on an abandoned office building doing their dirty business in the shadows behind rotting brick and boarded up windows. It was the perfect place for the kind of vampire stuck in the old ways; a shadowy place safe from the sunlight, with a kind of rotting stench that kept humans at bay at all costs.

Crowley prefers a more comfortable approach to life, thank you very much.

Every time someone got it into their heads to clean the place up and actually start using it as a proper place of business would find that their cleaning crew had gone missing overnight, and usually, all further operations were forgotten and then consequently swept under the rug.

Beelzebub had had their hold on this building for years, and they weren’t about to let it go now.

Crowley spends these few nights watching the building, watching figures emerge from behind boarded up windows, invisible to any eye that wasn’t as keen and sharp as Crowley’s.

There was definitely something going on there, he’d concluded, he just needs to find out what.

But there’s no way he’s going to find outside.

Crowley takes a breath, summons all of his courage, and turns invisible, creeping into the abandoned building.

The inside is just about as pleasant as the outside, the foul stench strong, rats scurrying across the floor. It’s difficult to see anything at first, and for a moment, Crowley sits in the silence, letting the new surroundings washing over him, flattened against a wall.

Gradually, his senses began to come to him, and he counted how many people he could sense in the room. Four, as far as he can tell, all unrecognizable to him. He’s familiar with Beelzebub’s scent, and can’t parse their smell amongst this group, so whatever their hallowed leader was up to, they obviously weren’t home. 

Voices begin to filter through a door to the left of him, and Crowley inches closer to press his ear against it to get a better listen.

It isn’t anything interesting, as far as Crowley could tell, mostly just discussing where their next food source would be coming from, and whether Beelzebub was going to bring back “the good stuff, you know, from those rich wankers.”

Crowley flattens himself against the door. He might be invisible, but the vampires would notice something awry if a door opened on its own. 

They keep talking, nothing of interest until one of them says, “did you see the human news? Serial killings, they’re calling them. They have no idea what’s coming for them.”

Crowley takes a breath, his brow furrowing. Had he been wrong about Beelzebub? He’d been working under the assumption that Beelzebub would have nothing to do with this. Could he really have been that wrong?

He shifts further, pressing harder against the door to hear a little more, misjudges his strength just a little –

\--The door creaks off its hinges, crashing onto the floor.

Crowley turns to dart away, but it’s too late, four vampires have turned their heads instantly to catch his scent, and before he can get anywhere, two sets of arms have clamp hard on his, another slamming down onto his shoulders, holding him still, and Crowley unwillingly turns visible.

“What have we got here?” the one not holding onto him says. “Doing a little spying, are we? Ligur warned Beez that you might be showing your ugly mug around here.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

“Would you believe me if I said that I was lost?” Crowley says, inching his chin away from the vampire in front of him.

The snarl on his face tells Crowley that he definitely wouldn’t.

“Never did like you much,” the vampire says, giving a sniff. “Far too high and mighty. Got too much of a taste for being amongst humans. Like you’ve lost your true self.”

Crowley shifts, his lips pressed together tightly.

May he never forget what he once was May he never become like these people; too far lost to the shadows that they’d forgotten where they even came from. 

He never wants to become like this. He never wants to forget what it was like to have a beating heart. He never wants to forget what it was like to taste the air on his tongue and to blush and ti breathe. He never wants to forget the days before his throat was screaming out floor blood.

If clinging onto the last dregs of his humanity makes him weak, then hell, Crowley is as fragile and as frail as they come.

There’s a clang from the other end of the building, a crunching of wood and then the sound of voices. All four vampires head snap up and turn towards the source of the noise.

“You’ll get what’s coming to you, soon enough,” the vampire spits. “Watch yourself, Crowley. Old Beez has got their eye on you.”

And then he’s tossed unceremoniously onto the dirt outside, landing in a heap of lanky limb.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley dusts himself back off and shuffles back to the bookshop taking stock of the marks around his arms and wrists where those vampires had dug their nails in. He’s covered in red scratches, and his jaw clicks at the thought of having to explain them to Aziraphale. He makes his way back to the bookshop slowly, dragging his feet.

Sure enough, Aziraphale starts fussing over him before he can even make it through the door.

He pounces on Crowley almost not seconds after he knocks, stumbling over his words to invite Crowley inside.

“Where have you been?” Aziraphale fusses, and of course, his eyes zero in on Crowley’s marked-up arms. “What’s happened to you?”

His fingers gently take Crowley’s arms in his to examine the wounds, rolling back Crowley’s sleeves to lift up his arm and take a look.

Even though he very much wants to just flop onto Aziraphale’s sofa and bask in being back into the human world again, Crowley lets Aziraphale fawn over him a bit. He can’t help but find it endearing, this fragile little human fussing over a vampire whose skin is tougher than granite.

“Aziraphale,” he says after Aziraphale mutters something about going to get bandages, “I’m fine. Look.”

Together they watch as the wounds on Crowley’s arms slowly stitch themselves back together, his marble white skin smoothing over as if it had never been touched.

“Vampire healing, remember?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and the worry in his tone is gone, replaced by fascination, and god damn if that’s not another thing that makes Aziraphale so endearing. He’s fascinated by everything. Everything is a new discovery, a new delight for Aziraphale to study. “Well, that really is very useful.”

Aziraphale’s fingers trace across Crowley’s skin, his touch featherlight.

Crowley closes his eyes and does his best not to let out a contented little sigh threatening to escape his lips. It feels so good to be touched, to have someone run their fingers across his skin. It makes him feel more like a human, and less like a monster.

After the few days he’s had, he needs this so badly.

But as quickly as the moment had begun, it fades, Aziraphale dropping Crowley’s arm and hitting him in the chest. It doesn’t hurt a bit, but Crowley’s eyes open and he lets out a somewhat exaggerated “oof.”

“What’s that for, angel?” Crowley says.

“Where have you been?” Aziraphale chastises. “You’ve been away for days. You come back covered in scratch marks. What have you been doing?”

“Had to go follow up on a few leads, angel, check out what Beelzebub’s been up to.”

“And get into a scrap while you were at it?”

Crowley sighs. “I had a bit of a run-in with a few of Beelzebub’s minions. They didn’t particularly want me to stick around.”

“They hurt you.”

“Barely,” Crowley says, layering his voice with that laid-back confidence of his that shattered under any pressure, “and not in any way that counts.”

“Still,” Aziraphale says. “I worry.”

“Angel,” Crowley drawls, “it’s not me you should be worrying about.”

Aziraphale slumps forward, pressing his face into Crowley’s chest, his arms slinking around the vampire’s waist. “I’m afraid that’s unavoidable, dear.”

Crowley tucks a finger under Aziraphale’s chin, tilting his head up to look Crowley in the eye. “I promise you, angel, you have nothing to worry about. I’m stronger than you know. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shift, darting to the side like he’s uncertain, but he doesn’t voice his concerns, allowing himself to be pulled into a kiss. It’s soft and sweet. Aziraphale is gentle with him in a way Crowley never thought he’d feel again after being turned.

There was nothing gentle about vampire life.

Aziraphale rests his palms on Crowley’s chest, pulling away just slightly. “Tell me about what you were doing.” 

Crowley gave a sigh, pulling away fully to run a hand through his hair. “I was wrong about Beelzebub. From what I heard – and it wasn’t a lot before they caught me – it sounded like they’re the ones behind the killings. I just don’t understand it. It’s not like Beelzebub.”

“In what way?”

“Beelzebub likes the shadows. They like to hide away from humans, they want to be kept a secret from humans. This – this isn’t hiding. It’s all over the news. Sooner or later some bright spark is going to figure out that what’s happening to these people isn’t something that could be done by a human. It’s all going to come out soon.”

Aziraphale swallows. “What will that mean for you and your kind?”

“I dread to think,” Crowley says, his voice strained.

But he does think, he thinks a lot, and Crowley knows what will happen if the secret is revealed. There isn’t any way that this will end without a war. A terrible one, with casualties on both sides.

His eyes flicker down to look at Aziraphale, taking in his soft hair, his fingers, twisting around that ring he always wore, that slight crease between his eyes, the furrow in his brow.

He couldn’t let anything happen to this man. He’d protect him with his dying breath.

He couldn’t let a war come to pass. Not with Aziraphale’s life at stake.

“Right,” Crowley says, blowing out a breath. “How are we gonna stop these bastards, then?”

* * *

The days that follow are arduous, the two of them throwing themselves into their mission. Crowley keeps a firm eye on Beelzebub’s lair from a safe distance; he doesn’t want to get too close in case someone notices him. His little stunt from before had definitely got him on the lair’s radar, and he’d rather not have a repeat event. If for nothing else, he needs to keep Aziraphale from worrying. Bad things come out of vampire fights, and strong as he is, he can’t take on all of Beezlebub’s lot. He’d be dead faster than you could say the words ‘blood-thirsty territorial vampire.’

His trysts at the lair were proving fruitless, much to his chagrin. Whatever Beezlebub’s secrets were, they were keeping them well hidden behind those shadowy decrepit walls.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale had been running himself ragged, trying to discern a pattern between the victims. So far, nothing seemed to match up. All four were different races, different genders, different ages. They have completely different occupations, lived in different areas of London.

On one such evening, Aziraphale lets out a frustrated breath, slapping his hands on the coffee table, almost dislodging the cocoa that had been perched precariously on the edge.

“There’s no correlation,” Aziraphale says. “Nothing to connect any of them.”

“There’s one,” Crowley points out, darkly. “They’ve all been found near your bookshop.”

“Yes, but none of these people ever came in. I would have remembered.”

Crowley pointedly looks down his nose at Aziraphale. “Really? Of all the people that come in and out of your bookshop, you couldn’t have missed a few? Unless you get a really good look at their faces when you shove them out the door for attempting to buy a book, it’s not as if you really spend much time interacting with customers.”

Aziraphale gives him an icy stare. “I’ll have you know that there is a delightful community of people who I speak with regularly. Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

“Alright, alright.” Crowley raises his hands in surrender. “We’ll keep a lookout.”

Aziraphale slumps himself back against the sofa with an unhappy sigh, wrinkling his nose. “I feel so helpless. There must be something we can do beyond waiting around until someone else gets hurt.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, joining Aziraphale on the sofa, and tucking a finger under his chin to turn his head to look at him, “it’s not your job to fix this. It wouldn’t be if it were some sick human going around draining people of their blood, and it definitely isn’t now. You don’t need to be getting yourself into the middle of a vampire turf war, or whatever’s happening here.”

“I can’t just do nothing. This is my community, Crowley. This is my home. I won’t watch it crumble.”

Aziraphale looks at him with such stubborn determination, and such terrible anguish that Crowley can’t help the way his throat closes up a little. He loves Aziraphale. He loves Aziraphale’s righteousness, his complete goodness, his determination to help out people he’s never even met.

It is the kind of compassion and kindliness that was stripped away from Crowley’s life the day his veins had been filled with vampire venom.

“Still,” Crowley says, covering Aziraphale’s hands. “You can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You can’t shoulder this with you every hour of the day.”

“What are you suggesting?” 

“I’m suggesting,” Crowley whispers, his fingers deftly sweeping across Aziraphale’s cheek. “that we should take a break.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker to meet his, and Crowley melts. He swears his heart misses a bit every time Aziraphale looks at him this way, his eyes big and blue, somehow full of both innocence, and sly coyness at the same time.

“Oh?” Aziraphale says, and there’s a faint hint of a smile from the corner of his mouth. Crowley wants to catch it in a kiss. “What did you have in mind?”

Crowley sweeps an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and effortlessly pulls him into a kiss. He’s never going to get used to this, Aziraphale’s lips soft and warm against his. He can feel Aziraphale’s heart pounding.

“Bedroom?” Crowley mutters, and all Aziraphale has to do is nod against Crowley’s chest, before he’s pulling him up into his arms, one hooking under his legs, the other holding his back steady.

Aziraphale clutches onto Crowley’s jacket, face pressed against Crowley’s heart, giggling hard. It vibrates against Crowley in such a pleasant way that he pelts towards the bedroom, there at the bed in less than half a second – somehow not quick enough.

He tosses Aziraphale onto the bed – who laughs soundly, his arms reaching up to lace his fingers with Crowley’s. He already looks debauched – his hair is a mess, his bowtie out of place.

Somehow that’s the thing that undoes Crowley every time – Aziraphale is always so particular about his clothes and his hair. Seeing them ruffled, his hair at odd angles, his sleeves rolled up – that does something to Crowley.

He pins Aziraphale’s arms back against the bed and kisses him hard, tracing his lips down Aziraphale’s neck.

“Dear?”

Crowley stills, pulling back from Aziraphale. “You alright? Do you want to stop?”

A smile breaks out across Aziraphale’s face. “No, my darling. Everything is lovely. I just wanted to ask—” his hand cups Crowley’s cheek, thumb brushing just below Crowley’s eye— “are you hungry?”

Something in Crowley’s world tilts. He hadn’t really thought about feeding in a while. With all the planning and vampire tracking and trap building, his feeding schedule had been amiss for a while. He retraces his past few days, tries to remember the last time he’d fed, and finds it’s been nearly two weeks.

Now that Aziraphale had mentioned it, Crowley realises that he’s parched. His hands shake as they move away from Aziraphale to touch his own neck, and there it is – the burn. His throat his screaming at him, and the thirst – which was always strong – was now almost too much to bear.

“Crowley?”

All of Crowley’s senses are drawn towards Aziraphale, suddenly ever more so acutely aware of the warm body beneath him, the fresh blood colouring his cheeks. He can feel Aziraphale’s breath, can see his pulse point on his neck, beating hard, so utterly inviting. He’s suddenly so filled with want, his mind filled with thoughts of piercing flesh, drawing blood, it would be so terribly easy – no, no, no, no. This is Aziraphale. Crowley digs his fingernails into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Darling. It’s alright. It’s okay,” Aziraphale says beneath him, and Crowley does his best to focus on his voice, to let Aziraphale’s soft tones fill his mind instead of the smell of blood. 

“I have to go,” Crowley says, forcefully, his fingers still jammed into his palms. “I can’t – I can’t – I can’t be here with you.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale says, softly, shifting so he’s not underneath Crowley. “Okay. You’re alright.”

It helps that they’re no longer touching. Crowley holds his breath. 

“I need to go.”

“Where?” Aziraphale asks. “Where are you going to go?”

“Anywhere,” Crowley says, and it comes out in one hiss of a breath. “I need to go or else I’m going to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Drink from me, Crowley.”

“No.”

It’s almost a howl.

“I’m offering myself to you,” Aziraphale says, lifting a hand to gently pull his shirt down and show his neck. “if this is what you need, I want you to take it. I want to give it to you. I want to be that for you.”

“No. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me. I want it. Crowley,” he says, and he reaches out and touches Crowley’s hand. His touch is like fire. It burns through Crowley, desire coursing through him. “I want this. I want this so much.”

Crowley sees it then. That look in Aziraphale’s eye, half-lidded, warm, filled with his own want and need.

“I - I can’t trust myself,” Crowley bites out.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says, his voice level. “If you truly want to go, I won’t stop you. If you want to go elsewhere and find a food source for yourself, I won’t stop you. But I’m here, I’m offering myself to you, I need you to know that this is what I want. I want to be this for you, my dear. Please. Please, let me.”

And that’s just about enough – Aziraphale’s hands are on his arms, his fingers brushing against skin, and Crowley can’t take it anymore, he doesn’t want this with anyone else, he doesn’t want anything, he just wants Aziraphale, who’s willing and ready and flush beneath him.

Aziraphale’s hands get brave, sliding up to cup Crowley’s cheek, to brush across his jaw, tilting his chin so Crowley’s eyes, black and hungry, meet Aziraphale’s, bright blue and full of desire.

Crowley can’t stop himself, he dips down, sliding an arm around Aziraphale’s back and pulling them gently down onto the bed.

“Okay,” he says, “okay, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s fingers curl around the sleeves of Crowley’s shirt, and he whispers, “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” and Crowley wants to laugh, because as if _he’s_ the person that needs reassuring right now, with what he’s about to do to Aziraphale.

“We’ve done this before,” whispers Aziraphale, and that first time on the sofa, Aziraphale warm and pliant beneath him, flashes through Crowley’s mind. It only furthers his desire.

“I trust you,” Aziraphale says. “Implicitly. I trust you, Crowley, I trust you with everything, and I love you, my darling, I love you so much—”

Aziraphale’s speech his cut off by a gasp as Crowley sinks his teeth into his neck, drinking deeply.

He almost cries with relief. The unbearable thirst in his throat, that awful, parched feeling gradually mutes, strength he didn’t know he’d lost returning to his limbs. 

Beneath him, Aziraphale lets out a series of moans, his fingers twisting in Crowley’s hair. He whispers encouragements, and a set of pleads, begging Crowley to keep going – “don’t you dare stop,” he says, breathlessly, “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And well, if Crowley’s already going to hell, he might as well go the whole way – his hand slips down, taking hold of Aziraphale – who lets out another indecent moan, as well as a very long string of very un-Aziraphale-like curses.

He pulls him up into a sitting position and pulls away from Aziraphale’s neck for a just a moment – ignoring Aziraphale’s desperate protests – to pull him onto Crowley’s lap. His lips find Aziraphale’s jaw, kissing down his neck and undoing buttons as he goes, his lips tracing down his chest.

Aziraphale’s grip in Crowley’s hair tightens, and Crowley finds himself grinning against his chest as he rids Aziraphale of more clothes. 

“You good?” he whispers, as he pulls away Aziraphale’s trousers. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his eyes aflame, “do not stop.”

In one smooth motion, Crowley rids himself of his own black jeans, pulling Aziraphale back onto his lap.

Skin on skin touch sets his body aflame, every part of him set alight with want. Aziraphale pulls himself closer, his arms winding around Crowley’s body. It’s like he can’t get close enough, like he wants to absorb himself into Crowley and live there, bodies connected, atoms bound together for the rest of time.

Crowley can’t complain. It feels like he could never get Aziraphale close enough. His skin is on fire. It feels like he’ll never get Aziraphale close enough. 

Aziraphale slides onto him and they both gasp, Aziraphale’s fingernails digging into Crowley’s back. Crowley can’t keep himself back any longer, he dips down again, and his lips find Aziraphale’s neck once more, tongue sliding across the puncture mark.

Aziraphale’s eyes slide shut, his head rolling back as he makes a noise that should be made illegal, just for all the things it does to Crowley. They breathe together and Crowley drinks. Aziraphale keeps begging for more, still whispering encouragements in Crowley’s ear, telling him how much he loves him, how much he needs this, how much he loves Crowley for doing this to him.

“My darling—” he let out a particularly loud gasp— “you have no idea what you do to me.”

But Crowley has some idea – he imagines it’s exactly the same thing that Aziraphale does to him; fill him with need and desire and want, leave him hapless to resist him, leave him unable to stop himself from taking everything, absolutely everything that Aziraphale’s willing to give.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s speech slows, and Crowley pulls away.

His body is stronger, his mind more alert. Now he’s taken a drink, he feels like he could conquer anything.

Christ, he hadn’t even realised how weak he had been feeling. They’d been working and searching and planning for so long that he’d been completely oblivious to how his body was starting to feel.

Aziraphale lets out one last little moan as Crowley retracts from him, his hands reaching weakly up for Crowley, trying to pull him back down.

“More...” he mumbles, eyes closed, “I can take more...”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley says, “not tonight.”

Blessedly, Aziraphale doesn’t fight him.

“Stay right here, my love,” Crowley whispers, kissing him gently on the nose. “I’ll be right back.”

There’s a little whine of protest as Crowley shifts off the bed to shuffle towards the bathroom, but Aziraphale is too tired to properly stop him.

Crowley finds a clean flannel from the cupboard, holding it under warm water and squeezing it out gently.

He returns to the bed, one hand threading through Aziraphale’s hair, the other, gently brushing the tiny wound on Aziraphale’s neck with the flannel, wiping away the blood. Aziraphale’s head turns against the bed, a tiny little moan dropping from his lips.

“I hate that I do this to you,” Crowley whispers, his fingers tracing through Aziraphale’s curls. “I hate that I hurt you like this.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says, his voice small but utterly self-assured none the less, “I love that you do this to me. I never want you to stop doing this to me.” 

Crowley shushes him gently. “Don’t speak, just rest. Let me take care of you now.”

Aziraphale’s hand covers Crowley’s, pulling it towards him and brushing his lips across Crowley’s knuckles. “I love you, my darling.”

Then his eyes close, and he lets Crowley wash the blood away gently. He’s compliant when Crowley helps him into pyjamas, and snuggles up to him, a content smile across his face as he slowly falls asleep in Crowley’s arms.

Crowley holds him close, his fingers running through Aziraphale’s hair.

Something’s wrong with this picture, Crowley thinks to himself. The prey isn’t supposed to cuddle up with the predator.

“No sense of self-preservation,” Crowley says out loud, quietly, looking down at Aziraphale in sad fondness, “none at all.”

The man in his arms is a marvel and a wonder. Crowley had never watched someone walk into danger the way Aziraphale had. He’d never seen someone not just welcome danger with open arms but beg and plead for it too. 

_I’ll do everything I can,_ he vows to himself in this moment. _I’ll do everything I can to protect you. _

He’ll fight off the rest of the world. Hell, he’ll kill every member of his own species, hunt them down one by one, become an even more acclaimed vampire hunter than Gabriel Hawthorne himself, if it’ll protect this man.

His thirst will never truly be sated. It never is. The hunger for blood is one that will never be quenched. That burn in his throat will never truly be soothed. He can contain it, just for a little while, but it’ll come back raging, angry and unignorable. It’ll never truly leave him. 

But he will live with it, and he’ll fight it, and he won’t let it get the better of him.

Not with Aziraphale’s life on the line. Not for one single second.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes in Crowley’s arms, pleasantly relaxed. His head feels heavy, like he’s been exhausted for so long, and now he’s allowed to sleep for as long as he can. Crowley’s fingers brush across Aziraphale’s arms, the skin prickling along his touch.

His eyes slide open, squinting for a moment as his eyes adjust to the light.

“There you are,” Crowley says, brushing Aziraphale’s hair back.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says. “...Is it morning?”

“It’s morning,” Crowley confirms.

Aziraphale blinks, taking in Crowley’s eyes. They’re back to their wonderful golden colour, no longer black and desperate, as they had been the night before. His thumb brushes across Crowley’s cheek, looking at them more closely. They’re filled with worry too; and if Crowley had been human, Aziraphale could imagine the kind of bags that would be present under there.

“What is it?” he asks.

Crowley’s teeth worry at the edge of his lips. “I took too much from you again. I shouldn’t have drunk that much blood.”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale says. “I’m fine, Crowley, I promise.”

“I know,” Crowley says, “I know, I know, but I worry. I worry that one day I’m going to take too much from you. I couldn’t bear it – I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”

Aziraphale lifts his head and presses it gently against Crowley’s. “I know. I feel the same way about you, my dear.”

“It’s more than that,” Crowley says, and there’s a desperation, a deep sorrow in his voice. “I – you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” Aziraphale asks, shifting himself up and curling himself into Crowley’s arms. “Please, explain it to me.”

“One day—” Crowley’s voice shakes— “no matter what, one day I’m going to watch you die. And then I’m going to have to keep on living in a world without you. And I can’t – I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to live in a world without you.”

His arms tighten around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale dips his head under Crowley’s chin, letting himself be held close. 

“Unless I get on the wrong side of another vampire or a slayer gets to me, I’m going to be here until the sun burns out the Earth. Maybe even longer than that,” Crowley says. “And I can’t stand it. I don’t want forever if it’s not with you.”

Aziraphale stays silent for a moment, just lying in Crowley’s arms. And then, after a very long pause, he says, “there is a way for both of us to have forever, you know.”

Crowley blinks, and then realisation floods into his eyes, his limbs freezing. “Aziraphale, no.”

“If you change me, we could have forever.”

Crowley grits his teeth. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Think about it, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and as he’s saying it, he realises just how much he wants this too. He doesn’t want to grow old while Crowley stays young. He doesn’t want to leave Crowley behind. He doesn’t want a world without Crowley in it, just as much as Crowley can’t bear a world without Aziraphale. “You wouldn’t have to worry about hurting me. You wouldn’t have to hold back. We’d have as long as we wanted. We could have six thousand years together, you and I. We could have more than that.”

Crowley can’t believe his ears. Aziraphale’s in his arms, bright blue eyes blinking up at him like he’s just thought of a really wonderful idea, like a horse begging to be taken to the slaughter. The idea of Aziraphale, cold and hard, black eyes full of hunger, blood running down his face, flashes through Crowley’s brain, and he has to stamp it out before he can think of anything else, but the image is etched there.

Aziraphale living this life. Aziraphale feeling this hunger. Aziraphale, spending an eternity damned to this terrible existence.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut. “No, no, no.”

“Crowley, please. Think about it.”

“I won’t do it, Aziraphale. I won’t curse you like this.”

“It’s not cursing me if I’m asking for it.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Crowley hisses. “This isn’t – this isn’t a fun life, Aziraphale. You don’t understand, you don’t know the pain of it. You don’t know what it’s like to feel so thirsty you might pull yourself apart for another meal. You don’t know what it’s like to be a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Crowley.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done!” Crowley bellows, and then instantly floods with guilt as he sees Aziraphale wince, but he can’t stop himself now that he’s started. “You don’t know how many people I’ve killed. You don’t know how many.”

“I know what you’ve done. I know.”

“Then how can you say that you want this life? How can you say that this is what you want to be? I’ve killed people, Aziraphale. Good people. People who had lives, who had families, people who loved, and were loved, and deserved better than to be food for someone who just couldn’t control his thirst.”

Aziraphale blinks. “But a lifetime with you—” 

“It’d destroy you. You’re too good for this life. There’s too much good in you to be this, Aziraphale. You don’t deserve to have this curse on you. I wouldn’t have chosen it, and I won’t do it to you. I won’t let you be this.”

Aziraphale’s hand curls in Crowley’s chest, resting where his heart should be. “You had to do this alone,” he says. “You’ve made mistakes. There have been accidents—”

“Accidents—” Crowley hisses sorrowfully.

“But you don’t deserve to torture yourself for who you are,” Aziraphale says. “You’ve always done your best to control your thirst. You’ve done what you can to limit the damage you make. And that’s why I love you, Crowley, because you’re so... you’re so good—” Crowley lets out a protest, but Aziraphale presses a finger to his lips— “you are, Crowley, you just don’t realise it. Everything you do is good, and you don’t have to keep atoning for the rest of your life for something that you can’t help.”

He shifts forward, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s. “And that’s why I know,” Aziraphale says, his breath tickling Crowley’s skin, “that if you were to change me, if I were to become like you – I’d be okay. You’d look after me. You wouldn’t let me lose control.”

“You’re crazy,” Crowley whispers. “You can’t really want this. You can’t really want to be like this.”

“But I do. I want to be with you, forever, in whatever way I have to,” Aziraphale says, “I swear. You don’t know how much.”

Crowley’s arms wind around Aziraphale’s waist. “Angel, I can’t. I can’t do that to you. Even if I didn’t think I’d be damning your soul for it, I can’t do this. You’d be in so much pain—”

“I don’t care. Not if the end result was a lifetime with you.”

“You might not pull through. There’s a high chance the process would kill you.”

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale says, that stubbornness of his rearing its angry head.

“I do,” Crowley says, firmly. “I won’t risk your life for this. I won’t risk your life for anything. I told you, I couldn’t bear the world without you. I won’t be the one to take you out of it.”

Aziraphale pouts in that way he always does when he hasn’t got what he wanted, like he hasn’t just asked for something any sane human would run away screaming from. Crowley wants to laugh hysterically, but he holds it back.

“Fine,” Aziraphale says, “we’ll table it for now.”

“No, we’ll table it for good.”

“We’ll see,” Aziraphale says stubbornly, and he has such an affronted look on his face that Crowley can’t stop himself from letting out a little laugh this time.

He kisses Aziraphale’s nose. “You are completely insane,” he says. “You know that?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I wish you know how serious I was,” he says, but he curls up in Crowley’s arms anyway and cuddles against him.

“I know how serious you are,” Crowley says, brushing his lips through Aziraphale’s hair. “That’s what scares me.”


	6. Chapter 6

In retrospect, Aziraphale thinks as he wanders through the shadows of London, this isn’t as a good of an idea as it had been when he’d come up with it in the bookshop. He briefly remembers the last time he did this, vampire’s teeth inches from his face, Crowley diving in to save him.

_Crowley. _

He’s not going to be pleased when he finds out what Aziraphale’s up to.

But he has a hypothesis that needs to be tested, and it’s one that he can’t tell Crowley about. Mostly because Crowley would stop him.

He can almost imagine the conversation right now – “_why the hell would you think this was a good idea,” “I have to keep you safe,” “You can’t keep putting yourself in danger”- _Aziraphale imagines Crowley’s voice in his head, bitterly.

It’s not that he doesn’t love it, doesn’t love Crowley – he _does, _desperately so, and he can’t lie that there’s a wonderful thrill that runs down his spine every time Crowley vows to protect him and promises to keep him safe.

It’s just – Aziraphale’s not a child. He’s managed for so long on his own, for Crowley to act as if he needs to be swaddled in cotton wool and taken care of every waking hour of the day – it’s frustrating.

So Aziraphale walks through the streets, heart thumping against his chest, hands kept firmly in his pocket, fingers curling around the wood hidden in there, and keeps walking down the path, following his hypothesis to take him where it might lead.

It doesn’t take long.

He’s just crossing through another dark empty street when he senses a presence behind him. He may not have Crowley’s keen vampire senses, but he’d spent enough time with Gabriel to know how to be aware of when someone’s following you. Aziraphale takes a breath.

“I know you’re there, whoever you are,” he calls out into the quiet, “you might as well come out now.”

Half a second later, Aziraphale’s pathway is blocked.

The vampire in front of him gives a dangerous, tooth-filled grin, black eyes full and hungry, glinting, even in the dark night.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, and that’s all Aziraphale needs to confirm his hypothesis, “boss wants to see you.”

“I have no intention of coming with you, and you can tell your boss that,” Aziraphale says calmly, his hand curling around the smooth wood in his pockets.

“He didn’t say that I had to bring you there in one piece,” the vampire says, and Aziraphale moves before the vampire can say anything else, drawing his hand out of his pocket, when—

“_AZIRAPHALE_!”

Crowley’s voice comes out of nowhere, and Aziraphale’s hand in his pocket freezes, which gives the vampire just the opportunity he needs. He launches at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale stumbles, knocked to the floor, enough time for the vampire to sink his teeth into Aziraphale’s neck.

It’s not pleasant like it is with Crowley. The teeth ravage at his skin, sucking out the blood in a way that _hurts, _like nothing he’s ever felt before. With Crowley it’s a perfect balance of give and take, Crowley’s lips soft against his neck, the pain just perfectly mixing with pleasure, the feeling of losing himself wonderfully sweet.

All Aziraphale feels in this moment is panic, able to nothing but let out a terrified scream, and much to his chagrin, to scream out Crowley’s name, begging him to help.

Crowley roars, careening out of nowhere, slamming down on the vampire and dragging him off Aziraphale. Aziraphale lets out a moan, his hands pressing against the wound on his neck, able to do nothing but curl up on the floor while Crowley takes care of the vampire.

He barely registers them fighting, his vision fading in and out of focus on the cobbled street around him, the world a blur. 

“Crowley,” he whispers, and just keeps whispering his name, heart pounding, head aching, his entire body screaming out for help.

He manages to turn his head and sees Crowley in the midst of a fight, both him and the other vampire looking ragged, animalistic. Crowley has him in a grip, fingernails digging into the vampire’s neck.

“Interesting,” the vampire says with a breath, “a vampire rescuing a human. Boss is gonna be interested to hear about this.”

“You’ll be dead before you can get to them,” Crowley snarls.

“Or maybe your human will be,” the vampire says, still breathless, but grinning wildly, “not looking in such a good way, is he?”

Crowley turns, panic-stricken, and Aziraphale watches as his eyes flood with the fear at the sight of him on the floor.

It’s just the chance the vampire needs to free himself from Crowley’s grip, and before Crowley can stop him, he’s disappeared, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone in the alleyway. Crowley lets out a strangled roar, and then Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands on his body, gentle and slow.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice soft but tinged with panic. “Aziraphale, can you hear me? Can you look at me?”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale mumbles. “Crowley...”

“You’re alright, you’re okay, everything’s gonna be okay,” Crowley says, his hand pressing over the wound in Aziraphale’s neck. “You’re safe now. I’m going to get you home.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale up, and he lulls into his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“Stay awake,” Crowley pleads. “Come on. You’ve got to keep your eyes open, alright? Stay awake until I can get you home. Please, Aziraphale. You’ve got to stay awake.”

Crowley moves then, and fast, and a little moan escapes Aziraphale.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, “sorry. I’m so sorry. We’re nearly home. We’re nearly home, okay, and then I’m going to patch you up.”

Aziraphale barely registers the return to the bookshop, only dimly aware of Crowley setting him into the sofa – “don’t get blood on the upholstery,” he mumbles, “sofa’s almost a hundred years old.”

Crowley gives a huff. “Just like you to think about the sofa. Not like there’s a puncture wound in your neck, angel,” and Aziraphale can _hear _the tinge of bitterness in Crowley’s voice.

Right. No chance of avoiding a fight, then.

He feels Crowley’s fingers against his neck, deftly wiping the blood away, bandaging the wound.

“Eat something,” Crowley says when he’s done, offering out an unwrapped packet of biscuits to him.

And well, Aziraphale’s never been one to say no to sweets, so he lets Crowley unwrap it for him – his hands are still shaking – and begins to eat, even though all he wants to do is close his eyes and go to sleep. His head’s pounding, his hands quivering, and his limbs feel heavier than lead. He polishes off the whole packet.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “I—”

“Rest,” Crowley says shortly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Oh, _blast it all to hell_. He’d really gone and messed this one up.

Still, he can’t resist the call for sleep any more, and he lets himself sway down onto the sofa, his head meeting Crowley’s lap, his eyelids, heavy and hard, finally slide shut.

He’s already dreading waking up.

* * *

Sure enough, right after his eyes flutter open again and Crowley’s checked to make sure he’s okay, they have it out.

“What were you _thinking?” _Crowley hisses.

“I wanted to make sure that we were right in our assumptions that someone was coming after me,” Aziraphale says. “And now we know.”

“We’d already established that!” Crowley says, throwing his arms in the air.

“No,” Aziraphale says, firmly, “_you _made an assumption. At least now we know it was correct. If we can figure out why...”

“And now all of Beezlebub’s lot know that I’m with you,” Crowley says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

Aziraphale twists the ring around his little finger, chewing on his bottom lip. “Yes, that wasn’t ideal,” he says, “you don’t think you’re going to be in much danger, do you? I certainly didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“_Me,” _Crowley despairs, “it’s _you _who’s going to be in constant danger now, don’t you see?”

“I’m not particularly worried about me,” Aziraphale says, dismissively.

Crowley runs a hand through his hair, and it looks as if he’s barely holding in a growl. “I can see that!” he says, “do you _like _me having to always jump in and rescue you?”

The honest answer is _yes, _but Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s what Crowley’s looking for at the moment.

“I had everything under control,” Aziraphale says. “If you hadn’t jumped in—”

“—If I hadn’t jumped in, you’d be dead,” Crowley says, his voice hollow. “If I hadn’t been there, that vampire would have torn your throat out.”

Aziraphale thinks about the stake in his coat pocket, thinks about Gabriel, does not say, “_no, he wouldn’t have.” _

Instead, he sits in silence, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m making tea,” he says eventually, standing up from his seat.

“You can’t just make tea every time you don’t want to have a conversation with me,” Crowley says, exasperated.

Aziraphale shoots him a glare that says, “_I’ll do what I want, thank you,” _and continues towards the kitchen as if Crowley hadn’t said anything.

He bustles about the kitchen, pouring water into the kettle and fussing about with teabags, watching out of the corner of his eye at Crowley stalking about in the living room. 

With a fresh cup of tea in hand, Aziraphale returns to the living room.

“Right,” he says, after taking a sip and settling his cup down onto the saucer with a _clink, _“after last night we know that one or more vampires are after me for some reason. So I think we should—”

“—No,” Crowley interrupts, sharply.

“No?” One of Aziraphale’s eyebrows ticks upwards.

“No. No more of this. No more vampire hunting for you. You’re going to stay here, _where it’s safe.” _

“If you think I’m going to hide away in my bookshop while innocent people are dying, you’ve got another thing coming, Anthony J. Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley lets out a low hiss at the use of his full name and then folds his arms. “No, I’m saying I’m not letting you go out to get yourself killed because you have some sort of rescue kink.”

“I do not have a _rescue kink_,” says Aziraphale, who knows full well about his rescue kink. “I just don’t want anyone else to die on my watch.”

“At the cost of your own life?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, tightly. “At the cost of my own life.”

Crowley looks as if he’s going to argue, his jaw clicking, but then his face goes slack, a softer expression taking over. “I just can’t bear to see you get hurt. Last night was too much for me. For a moment there, I thought I’d lost you.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley’s sorrowful expression, then he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the glass doors of his china cabinet. Tired, sunken eyes, hair out of place, neck covered in bandages.

He puts his cup and saucer down onto the coffee table and sighs.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to make you worry, nor did I mean to get myself hurt,” he says, standing and gently tucking a finger under Crowley’s chin, tilting his head so that he’s looking Aziraphale in the eye. “But I won’t be made to stay inside while others are at risk. I won’t allow myself to do that.”

Crowley gives a soft sigh, his hands reaching up to trace Aziraphale’s cheek. Guilt settles in Aziraphale’s stomach. He’s right – he won’t stop fighting for the people of Soho, and no matter how Crowley feels he’s not going to keep himself out of harm’s way like a child – but he doesn’t want to hurt Crowley either. Not when he always treats Aziraphale so gently, so kindly, like Aziraphale is a precious thing that deserves to be cherished.

Aziraphale had never known what it was like to be loved until Crowley.

But he won’t budge. Not when innocent people’s lives are at stake.

Crowley kisses him, slow and soft, and Aziraphale feels himself unravel slowly, his heart warming.

And then in the next few seconds, Aziraphale’s back is against the wall, the breath knocked out of him, his wrists pinned against the wallpaper, Crowley looking at him in a way that is both hungry and angry.

“I wish I could show you,” he says, “how much danger you’re in from us.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, breathlessly.

“I wish you knew. If you knew then you wouldn’t come anywhere near me. You wouldn’t go looking for trouble in the way that you do,” Crowley says.

_Not likely, _Aziraphale thinks.

“You’d be powerless to stop me if I wanted to hurt you,” says Crowley, holding Aziraphale tight against the wall. “You’re no match for my strength.”

“But you don’t want to hurt me,” Aziraphale says, unbothered.

“But someone does,” Crowley says with a hiss. “Someone out there does.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth and then closes it again.

Crowley moves in close, his jaw opening around Aziraphale’s neck. “One bite and I could kill you. Or make you like me. Damn you to a cursed life for an eternity.”

Aziraphale shivers, the back of his neck prickling.

He does not say, “_yes please,” _even though he wants to.

“I could hurt you in so many ways,” Crowley whispers, “I could lose control. I’m fast. You wouldn’t be able to run away.”

“I don’t want to run away,” Aziraphale says, his voice barely a breath in his mouth. “Not from you.”

Crowley’s hands press tighter onto Aziraphale’s wrists. “What will make you fear me?” he says, eyes flaming. “What will make you afraid?”

“Nothing could make me afraid of you,” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes soft and half-lidded, his heart pounding, his entire body thrumming with desire.

“You should be. You should be terrified,” Crowley says, moving closer.

Aziraphale looks down at Crowley’s lips. “But I’m not.”

Crowley leans forward and kisses him hard, keeping him pinned against the wall. His forehead presses against Aziraphale’s, fingers curling around Aziraphale’s wrists.

“You shouldn’t want me. I’m a danger to you. One wrong move and I could kill you.”

“But I do want you,” Aziraphale breathes, “I want you so badly I feel like I might die.”

Crowley traces kisses around Aziraphale’s jaw, keeping Aziraphale’s arms pinned to the wall even as he tries to reach out and touch Crowley’s face. His lips slide down Aziraphale’s jaw, kissing the unbandaged side of Aziraphale’s neck, scraping his teeth against Aziraphale’s pulse point.

And then Aziraphale is in Crowley’s arms, clinging on for dear life as Crowley pelts up the stairs, preternaturally fast, and before Aziraphale knows it, he’s been dropped on the bed, hands pinned against the pillows, Crowley on top of him.

“You’d be at my mercy if I wanted you to be,” Crowley says, “you wouldn’t be able to fight me off.”

“I want to be at your mercy,” Aziraphale says. “_Desperately._”

His legs shift, hips bucking up towards Crowley, his entire being begging for Crowley to touch him, to kiss him, to use him. 

“I could hurt you,” Crowley says, “it would be so _easy_.”

“So why don’t you?” Aziraphale says, and this time impatience leaks into his tone. He shifts on the bed, raising his hips again. His hands are shaking, his body shivering, begging Crowley to just _touch him. _

Crowley moves down swiftly, and Aziraphale closes his eyes, ready, willing, but Crowley stops just before his lips meet Aziraphale, and Aziraphale almost wants to scream out in frustration.

_Just touch me, _he thinks, _please. _

And then Crowley does, his lips descending onto Aziraphale’s neck, sucking bruises into the skin, still holding Aziraphale’s arms down. Aziraphale squirms, gasps escaping from his lips as Crowley kisses him, much harder than usual, with much more force.

It’s almost too good for Aziraphale bear.

Crowley sheds his clothing and pulls off Aziraphale’s, his lips trailing down Aziraphale’s body with each button that he undoes, teeth scraping along Aziraphale’s chest. Before long they’re both naked, Crowley still holding Aziraphale down.

Then Crowley flips him over, and Aziraphale’s moans are muffled into the pillow. He’s trapped between Crowley’s legs, who slides against him, taking hold of him. Both of them gasp together, Aziraphale letting out a loud whine as Crowley hits a sweet spot, the two of them rocking together. Crowley gives a rough moan, and that’s enough to send shivers down Aziraphale’s spine, as if he weren’t already putty in Crowley’s hands, no longer human, but boneless and free.

The headboard slams repeatedly against the wall, Aziraphale letting out gasp after gasp, screaming Crowley’s name over and over again until it’s the only word he knows how to say, stars sparkling across his eyelids.

And then it’s over, the two of them letting out a shout, Aziraphale whimpering before taking several long breaths.

They lie in silence, breathing hard, Crowley staying on top of Aziraphale until he can’t stand it anymore, sliding away.

After a moment he rolls back over, his hand running gently through Aziraphale’s hair, pressing a gentle kiss on top of his head.

“Are you alright?” he says softly, and there’s that worry in his voice again.

He lifts Aziraphale’s wrists and brushes his lips along the red mark from where Crowley had been holding him down.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says again, more concern leaking into his voice.

Aziraphale realises that he hadn’t answered Crowley. He’s not sure he can speak, actually, his chest rising and falling, all the breath stolen from his body.

“Yes,” he says eventually, his breath slowly coming back to him once more.

“I didn’t hurt you?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale almost wants to roll his eyes.

“Not in any way I didn’t want you too,” Aziraphale says.

He feels sore in all of the right ways, his whole body shivering and his lips swollen. He can already feel the bruises forming on his neck, and he feels like a blushing teenager, trying to hide hickeys from his mother.

“Are you sure?” Crowley’s eyes – beautiful and golden – are filled with worry. “We shouldn’t have done this so soon, after last night...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, using as much of his strength as possible to stretch out and cup Crowley’s cheek, his thumb caressing his skin, “it was incredible.”

He feels Crowley relax just slightly, under his touch. “I should clean us up,” Crowley says, as they sink back down onto the bed.

Aziraphale’s hand finds Crowley’s. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Not just yet. I need you here for a bit.”

Crowley complies, opening up his arms and folding Aziraphale into them. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

Aziraphale shakes his head against Crowley’s chest. “Just you.”

He feels incredibly raw, like he’s been opened up. He curls up into Crowley’s chest, closing his eyes and letting himself feel Crowley’s fingers in his hair, softly running through his curls.

Crowley was capable of great strength and force, but he was also capable of being so gentle. Aziraphale wants to cry, somehow. He lets a sniff and presses his face into Crowley’s chest.

He feels Crowley freeze.

“Angel, are you okay?” he says, gently tilting Aziraphale’s chin up to look at him.

“Perfectly, my darling,” Aziraphale insists. “Just a lot of emotions at once, that’s all.”

Crowley kisses him on the head. “Next time we’ll go slower.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says, indignant. “Not now I know what you’re capable of.”

Crowley sighs. “You’re incorrigible.”

Aziraphale grins and rests himself back in Crowley’s chest. _Insatiable would be the better word_, Aziraphale thinks, because now he’s had a taste of what even half of Crowley’s capable of in bed, he’s never going to want to stop. 

They rest in comfortable silence for several long moments, Aziraphale just listening to the way Crowley’s chest rises and falls.

“You really did scare me, you know,” Crowley says, after a long moment.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker upwards. “Hmm?”

“Last night. When I saw you with that vampire—” Crowley’s voice shakes a little— “I was so scared. I thought I was going to lose you for good.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers, and this time he means it. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean... I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“I’m always going to worry about you, angel. _Always,” _Crowley says. “But maybe...”

He trails off.

“Maybe?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Maybe I have been trying to swaddle you in cotton wool. Christ, angel, you’re braver than anyone I’ve met. And I don’t think locking you up in the bookshop is going to work well for either of us.”

“Certainly not,” says Aziraphale.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been a tad... overprotective.”

“A tad,” Aziraphale says, with a slight scoff.

“Okay, a lot,” Crowley admits, reaching forward to cup Aziraphale’s cheek, brushing his skin with his thumb, “but you don’t know how much I... how much I need you. The thought that one day I might not have you around anymore, _scares _me.”

There’s a long pause, a static tangible tension in the air. “What will you do,” Aziraphale begins, speaking slowly, as if he wasn’t sure of what he was about to say, “when I’m not here anymore?”

Crowley’s face screws up for a moment, and he blows out a breath, before saying, breezily, “well, I don’t expect I’ll be around for much longer than you are.”

Something seizes in Aziraphale’s heart, his limbs freezing. He claps his hands over Crowley’s, the two of his squeezed between Aziraphale’s, tight. “No,” he says, “I forbid it.”

“What?”

“I forbid you from doing anything stupid when I’m not around anymore. Or else I shall be very cross, indeed.”

“Aziraphale...”

“No,” says Aziraphale, his forehead wrinkling, a frown on his face. “You’ll find a way to keep on living, or I will—”

“—or you will?” Crowley prompts an amused grin on his face, despite their morbid conversation.

“Or I will never speak to you again,” Aziraphale says.

“You wouldn’t be speaking to me anyway,” Crowley points out.

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Then my ghost won’t speak to you..”

Crowley lets out a laugh, eyes crinkling, and despite being very serious before, Aziraphale can’t help but smile a little too.

“There’s still another option for us,” Aziraphale says, once the laughter has subsided. “One that involves neither of us having to part with the other at all.” 

Crowley’s face falls a little. “Aziraphale,” he says, looking pained. “You know how I feel about that.”

“Just making sure you know it’s an option.” Aziraphale covers Crowley’s hands, gently lacing their fingers together. “And you should know, it’s an option that I am all in for.”

“You still don’t know what you’re asking for,” Crowley whispers.

“I do,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward to kiss Crowley tenderly on the lips. “A lifetime with you would be worth any pain.”

Crowley traces Aziraphale’s face in a way that makes his skin tingle. He leans forward, brushing their foreheads together. “I can’t, Aziraphale,” he says. “I can’t do that to you.” 

“But I want it,” he says, “_desperately.”_

His entire body yearns for it. The thought of eternity with Crowley - to be together with him _properly, _without either one of them having to hold back, to be able to spend lifetime after lifetime together – has taken hold of him so fully he feels as if he may die from the pain of longing for it. The idea consumes his waking hours, taking hold of him at all hours of the night.

If only he could convince Crowley, who appears stubbornly recalcitrant.

Crowley doesn’t answer him, just looks down at him with pained, golden eyes.

“One day I am going to grow old, you know,” Aziraphale says, “and you won’t find me such good company anymore.”

“Never,” says Crowley, fixing him with a prolonged gaze, eyes aflame. “I’ll never stop wanting to be around you.”

_But you won’t desire me anymore, _Aziraphale thinks bitterly. _You won’t want me in the same way you want me now. _

He doesn’t say it. Instead, he changes the subject.

“Have you thought any more about what we’re going to do about our rogue vampire gang?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “Not really,” he admits. “Not sure how we can fight _all _of Beelzebub’s gang.”

“I did have a thought,” Aziraphale says, fiddling with the bandage. “Use me as bait.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley looks horrified by the thought.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I thought we just had a discussion about you being overprotective.”

“This isn’t being _over_protective, this about rightfully being concerned about sending you into the clutches of a gang of hungry vampires.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his breath coming out short and exasperated. “We’ve established that for whatever reason Beelzebub’s lot are after me—”

“—because of me,” Crowley interjects, with a sigh.

Aziraphale fixes him with a glare. “Doesn’t it make sense that the easiest way to draw these vampires out, to find out what they want and stop them before they can hurt anyone else, is to use me?”

Crowley’s jaw clicks. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s the easiest way.” 

“No, there must be some other—”

“People are _dying, _Crowley. There was a fifth victim on the news, didn’t you see? I won’t let this happen anymore. If more people keep getting hurt and I didn’t do something about it when I could have done, then _I’m _responsible,” Aziraphale says as calmly as he can manage even with his frustration and anger threatening to boil over.

“That’s a hell of a leap of logic,” Crowley grumbles.

“Is it?”

Aziraphale presses his lips together. He won’t allow himself to be mollycoddled into a corner with his one. Crowley might be a big bad vampire with super strength and god knows what else, but Aziraphale is a stubborn as they come and twice as determined.

“Fine,” Crowley bites out, “but you’ve got to let me try something first. I’m going to speak to Beelzebub, talk to them myself, see if I can’t get to the bottom of this. Then and only then will we go with your plan.”

Aziraphale considers arguing, but it’s as much leeway as Crowley has given him so far regarding his safety. He supposes it’s as much as he’s going to get. 

“Is that wise?” he asks instead. “Talking to Beelzebub? What if they do something to hurt you?”

“That’s for me to worry about,” Crowley says and holds up a finger when he sees Aziraphale about to protest. “I promise you, angel, I won’t do anything stupid. I’ll go with a cover story if needs be. I’ll pretend I’m finally interested in joining their lot.”

“What about those vampires before? They knew you were spying.”

“I’ll tell them it was a misunderstanding,” Crowley says. “I’ll figure something out.”

Aziraphale frowns. He doesn’t like it.

“If you change me, I can—”

“No,” Crowley says, firmly. “That’s not going to happen.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Fine,” he says with a huff.

He hadn’t expected it to work anyway.

Then he sighs, more worries flying around his head. “Just be careful, please,” he says, reaching out to take Crowley’s hand. “I know you think you’re invincible, but it’s always those that rush into things that end up in pear-shaped situations.”

“Speaking from experience?” Crowley says, giving a small grin.

Aziraphale smacks him. Crowley catches his hands.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he says, lips brushing across Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Nothing’s going to stop me from coming back to you in one piece. I promise.”

It’s good enough for now, Aziraphale supposes, especially with the way that Crowley’s looking at him, half-lidded golden eyes, a coy fox-like smile.

“You up for round two?” Crowley says.

With a smile and a voice like that, Aziraphale is powerless to say no.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a chill in the air, frost clinging to the pavements, and a thick mist drifting through London. The streets are quiet at this early hour, and Crowley’s steps are quiet on the pavement, drifting as slowly and as silently as the mist.

He’d left before Aziraphale had woken up, wanting to avoid the ensuing worry-fight that would most likely accompany him before he could get out of the door. Aziraphale would get some ridiculous idea in his head like wanting to come with him, and Crowley would have to spend an awful lot of time trying to convince him that it was a bad idea.

_He just doesn’t understand the dangers_, Crowley grumbles to himself as he stalks along the pavement. _He doesn’t understand how vulnerable he is. _

Crowley could accept that he’d been just a tiny bit overprotective of Aziraphale, perhaps, but nonetheless, but that didn’t negate the fact that Aziraphale seemed drawn to danger like a moth to a flame. It didn’t make any sense. Aziraphale likes books and cups of tea and sitting down to a nice meal. He liked comfort. How was it that the same man who liked frumpy old waistcoats and refused to buy a smartphone could also so brazenly and deliberately flirt with danger?

Crowley just can’t understand it.

Still, he has a job to do, and if he doesn’t want Aziraphale to rush out onto the streets of London and offer himself up as a vampire meal ticket, then he needs to do it right.

He sticks to the shadows as he makes his way to Beelzebub’s lair, hiding from the occasional figure who had ventured their way out in that early morning, human or otherwise.

This time, when he reaches the decrepit old building that Beelzebub calls home, he enters the proper way: by knocking five times, three fast, two slow, on the rotting doors and waiting.

He doesn’t have to wait long. There’s a grunt, and two red eyes pop up in the crack between the boards.

“State your name and your business,” the voice barks.

“Crowley,” he says, “I seek an audience with Beelzebub.”

There’s a pause and then a sound of hoarse, scratchy laughter.

“Crowley,” the voice repeats with a scoff. “You’ve got some nerve showing your face around here again.”

“That’s no way to greet a friend,” Crowley says, his voice lazily slow. “I just wanna talk to Beelzebub.”

“They ain’t around.”

That’s odd. Where would Beelzebub be lurking if not in their lair?

“In fact—” suddenly, a figure materialises in front of the door, causing Crowley to jump back. Two more appear behind him out of nowhere. He’s boxed in, surrounded by smiling, dangerous faces— “they ain’t been around for a while.”

Something’s off. Tension leaks into Crowley’s limbs, his fists clenching. The vampire in front is leaning towards him, putrid breath catching on the air. Crowley makes a show of screwing up his face.

“Alright, lads?” he says, but his casual tone is betrayed by his hands, already tense as if to bear his claws at any second.

“Funny you should show up now. Boss has been looking for you. Said you would probably show up soon.”

Crowley eases away from the vampire. It’s only now that he notices his eyes. Crowley’s are covered by his dark glasses so in the dim light he hadn’t seen it, but now he does; this vampires’ eyes are white, all the way through, no pupil, no iris.

He squints, pulling his glasses away from his face. 

Vampire eyes vary, depending on mood and hunger. Crowley’s switch from golden to black and back again, depending on how recently he’s fed. He’s seen vampires with vibrant blood-red eyes before, often in the meaner ones, the ones that delight in piercing flesh and stopping hearts. He’s never seen pure white eyes before.

Something’s wrong here.

When he does a quick twist around, he sees that every single one of the vampires around them has bright white eyes.

Something creeps over Crowley’s skin, clenching over his heart, and for a moment he wonders if he’s just got wound up in the middle of something much deeper than he’d realised before.

Crowley gives a grin as if he’s unbothered by the whole thing. “Well, I’ve always been told that the parties don’t start without me,” he says. “So kind of you to wait for me to show up.”

“Heard some things about you, Crowley,” the vampire says, inching closer once more. When Crowley tries to move back, he bumps straight into the vampires behind him. He’s closed in, trapped.

“Didn’t realise I had such a reputation.”

“They say you’ve got a taste for the human life,” he says. “Turning away from the vampire one.”

Crowley keeps still, staring down the vampire behind his glasses. “I guess I just haven’t forgotten where I came from,” he says, his voice calm.

“Got more than just a taste for the human life!” one of the vampires behind him crows, slamming his hands down on Crowley’s shoulders. He does his best not to flinch.

“Got a taste for a particular human too,” says another.

Crowley’s mouth goes dry, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, even though he knows it’s futile.

The vampire in front grins, showing off his shark-like teeth. “Don’t you? So you’ve got nothing to do with a particular bookseller in Soho? White hair. Always wearing a bowtie and waistcoat.”

Crowley tries not to let the growl out, he really does, but before he can stop himself, he’s crouching, his hands clenching into tight fists, baring his teeth as he gives off a snarl.

The vampire smiles again, and god damn it, if he hasn’t just given everything anyway. But Crowley can’t seem to bring himself to care. All he can think about is Aziraphale, alone in the bookshop, asleep when he last saw him, tucked up in bed and snoring gently on the pillow without a care in the world.

“We sent some friends over to that little bookshop of his,” the vampire says.

“You can’t hurt him,” Crowley growls, his voice a rough burn. “He won’t invite you in. You won’t be able to get anywhere near him.”

The vampire lets out a mocking laugh, tipping his head back and baring his teeth his as he lets out a guffaw that makes Crowley even more tense than he already is. 

“You think that’s all that’s going to stop them? Not being invited in?” the vampire says. “We’re _vampires. _You think the most dangerous predators in the world are going to be stopped because they weren’t invited in?. We’re at the top of the food chain, Crowley. We take whatever we want.”

Crowley lunges at the vampire, but he’s quickly restrained by the three behind him, who hold fast onto his arms, their claws digging into Crowley’s skin. He can feel his skin pulling apart, tearing where nails meet skin.

“If you hurt him,” Crowley snarls, “I will tear your limbs apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left to send to the next life.”

“At that point, Crowley,” the vampire says with a smug fox-like smile that Crowley wants to rip off his face, “you’ll be too late.”

Crowley gives an anguished cry, desperately yanking himself away from the vampires that have him restrained, but it’s no use, they’re holding him steady. He’s unable to move.

“What do you want with me?” he says, his jaw clenched, teeth gritted. “Whatever you’ve got against me is nothing to do with him.”

The vampire raises an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t know?”

Crowley pauses. “Know what?”

The vampire grins, blank eyes crinkling. “Oh, this is priceless. The boss is going to find this very interesting.”

“Beelzebub?” Crowley says. “What the _fuck _are they planning?”

“Beelzebub?” the vampire smirks. “This has nothing to do with Beelzebub. That old crone went stale long ago.”

Crowley’s mind was racing. Beelzebub, gone stale? Could they really have nothing to do with this? What the hell was going on?

“Still, haven’t got time to sit and chat,” the vampire says, and then nods to other two. “Kill him, and then we’ll make sure the others have got the good bookseller.”

Crowley roars, ripping himself from the vampires’ grasp, rolling on his shoulder and whipping back around to face them, teeth and claws bared.

Four on one. Not good odds. Crowley figures he has barely half a chance, but he’s angry, confused and he’s got the love of his life to protect if his life depends on it.

The four of them meet his stance, bending their knees, baring their fangs. 

_Aziraphale, _he thinks to himself. _I will not let any of them get to Aziraphale. _

The first vampire comes at him, swinging his fist but Crowley catches it, jamming his knee into his crotch to wind him, and then digging his fingers has hard into the vampire’s skin as he can manage. The vampire howls in pain, but isn’t deterred, he launches forward, mouth wide, but Crowley dodges him, ducking out of the way before he can get his teeth into Crowley’s skin.

Another comes from behind, and Crowley swings an elbow and hears a _crack _as it meets its mark. In the ensuing struggle, another gets his claws into Crowley and before he can get him off, he’s sunk his teeth into Crowley’s arm, ripping out a chunk of skin.

Crowley lets out a guttural screech, pain radiating through him, unbearable. He sinks to his knees, letting out another shriek as his animalistic instinct takes over, his vision clouded with red as rounds onto the vampire, bares his teeth and rips out his throat. With one last howl, the vampire is dust in the ground.

One down, but the other three are clawing at him. Anything human about the four of them had been lost; they clawed and bit at each other like rabid dogs, scrapping in the dirt. Crowley manages to sink his teeth into another of them but can’t go deep enough to kill before he’s been dragged away by another.

His teeth find arm and leg and hand, ripping and pulling whatever his teeth can find purchase in. Shrieks and screams fill the air, cat-like and feral. Crowley’s sunglasses had been knocked away long ago, his eyes stretched and black.

Another vampire dies at his hands, his teeth finding throat once more, but there are still two more, and both of them are bigger and stronger than him. Both of them have taken less damage. Crowley is covered in bites, crescent-moon shaped, ugly red gashes up and down his arms and all over his body. His body is screaming out in pain, his vision blurring as venom courses around his veins.

He’s reminded of the day he lost his humanity, screaming and scrabbling in a dark alleyway as venom fed on his human form and gave him a lust for blood that would never, ever be quenched. He remembers screaming for help but not being able to move, his limbs on fire as he stared, unblinking at the cobbled ground, covered in dirt. He remembers the cold red eyes that took one look at him before leaving him there to die. He remembers waking up and being overwhelmed by senses he’d never felt before. He remembers the unbearable thirst.

And then he realises he’s losing.

He’s lying in the street, his movements slow as he just barely manages to hold the two of them off before they can their teeth in him. It’s in this moment he realises that he’s going to die.

_Sorry, Aziraphale, _he thinks, waiting for his last breath. _I’m so sorry. _

And then, just as the final vampire opens his mouth wide, fangs poised to rip out Crowley’s jugular, there’s a yell—

“CROWLEY!”

And Crowley knows that anguished voice, and he can’t be here, _fuck, _it’s not safe, and Crowley’s yelling, he’s yelling with all of the strength he has left.

“AZIRAPHALE! NO! IT’S NOT SAFE!”

The vampires snap their heads up turning with twin grins towards the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley’s begging, pleading Aziraphale to get to safety and then, and blood rushes to Crowley’s limbs as he watches in horror for the moment that one of these creatures hurts Aziraphale.

One of them stands up, facing Aziraphale, a terrible smile on his face. “I’m going to enjoy—”

His sentence is cut off. For a moment Crowley is confused, watching as the vampire sways, and then he sees the stake, driven straight through his heart. 

He watches as Aziraphale pulls it back in one smooth movement, the vampire falling into dust onto the ground. The last vampire turns, facing Aziraphale.

“Kindly get your hands off my boyfriend,” Aziraphale says with gritted teeth, and then, in a rhythm almost like a dance, Aziraphale adjusts his stance, flipping the stake over in his hands, and slamming it straight through the heart of the final vampire and ripping it away, killing him instantly.

There is silence as the vampire disappears into dust. Crowley watches, mouth gaping open as Aziraphale stands for a moment, still in his stance, Crowley’s knight in beige waistcoat armour. The wind ruffles through his hair and for a moment, he looks fearless, his mouth set into a hard edge, eyes cold and hard, like he could beat the whole world into submission. And then he sees Crowley looking, and he falters, his hand hiding the stake behind his back as if Crowley hadn’t just seen him kill two vampires without even blinking.

Aziraphale kneels. “Crowley,” he says, his voice uneven. “Are you alright?”

“You—”

“You’ve got so many bite marks on you, oh Crowley, my _dear,” _Aziraphale says.

“You _killed _them,” Crowley says, the words coming out in one big gasp as if he’d only just remembered how to breathe. “You—” and all he can do his flap his arm in a stabbing motion— “you staked them.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, his eyes flitting about, looking anywhere but him. “Crowley, we’ve got to get you back to the bookshop. Those are some nasty wounds.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley says, even though the bites all over him are screaming in pain and none of them have begun to heal. “Bookshop’s not safe. They sent people there too.”

“I took care of them,” Aziraphale assures him. “Let me help you up.”

Crowley bats Aziraphale’s offered hand away and scrambles away from him. Aziraphale flinches.

“I— you—” Crowley stammers. “Those were slayer moves, Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, his eyes flitting away from Crowley, head bowed a little.

“You’re a slayer?” Crowley says.

“Not exactly. At least, not anymore,” Aziraphale says. “Please, Crowley. Let me take you home. I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

But Crowley shakes his head, still completely stunned. His head was spinning with all this new information. Aziraphale, in waistcoat and bowtie glory, Aziraphale, who collected books, Aziraphale who got very ruffled when his tea wasn’t made right, a vampire slayer?

It doesn’t fit. It’s not right. Crowley screws his fingertips into his eyes.

“Please, darling, I’ll explain everything,” Aziraphale says, taking a few steps forward, his hand reaching out for Crowley’s.

“Don’t—” Crowley snaps, taking steps away from him.

A hurt look crosses Aziraphale’s face and despite the fear, guilt begins to rise in his stomach.

Aziraphale holds his arms up, not moving any closer. “Crowley, please,” he whispers. “Let me explain everything. You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to do anything. Just please let me explain.”

“You lied to me,” Crowley says, hollow.

He feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him, the world spinning around him. He feels ill. He hasn’t been ill since he was turned.

Aziraphale doesn’t look like the same man anymore.

“I – I didn’t lie,” Aziraphale falters, “I just... omitted certain truths.”

“Everywhere else in the world, that’s called lying, Aziraphale.”

“I couldn’t tell you. I had to keep you safe.”

Something vibrates in Crowley’s chest, laughter tumbling out of him before he can stop it. “Safe?” he says, almost hysterically. “That’s rich. All this time I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was doing everything I could to keep _you _safe. But you were planning to stab me in the back the whole time.”

Aziraphale flinches. “That’s not true.”

“You knew all this time, didn’t you? All that time I was telling you about the danger you were in, all that time I spent explaining to you what kind of creature I was, and you already _knew.”_

Aziraphale is ashen-faced. He swallows before responding, “yes.” 

“And those scars on your back. They’re not from an animal attack, are they?”

There’s a long pause.

“No,” Aziraphale admits.

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, pain splitting through his skull. He’d forgotten what that kind of pain was like. “So, you just have a taste for vampire fights on the sly, then?”

Something passes across Aziraphale’s face.

“It wasn’t a vampire that left those scars,” he says, quietly. 

“Stop lying to me.”

“It wasn’t,” Aziraphale insists. He twists the ring on his little finger, his eyes flitting away. “Gabriel likes to get hands-on with his teaching.”

It’s like getting another punch to the gut.

The feelings that overwhelm Crowley in this moment are all over the place. Anger. Indignance. He’s looking at the way Aziraphale is clutching his arm, staring at the ground, and there’s a spike of protectiveness, too, even now. Even when the world is spinning too fast on its axis. Even though Crowley’s heart feels like it’s breaking, shattered by betrayal.

But there’s one other thing too, running through his mind on a loop.

_Gabriel. _

“Gabriel,” Crowley says, “Gabriel as in Gabriel Hawthorne?”

“Yes.”

“Gabriel, as in the deadliest vampire hunter the world has ever seen? Killed more of us than anyone else?”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“You trained under _Gabriel Hawthorne_?”

“Yes.”

Crowley wants to scream.

He’s looking at Aziraphale now, the man he loves, the man who he’d cross the world for, the man he’d die for in a split second, and trying to imagine him as Aziraphale, the vampire killer.

It feels like he’s taken a spike straight through the heart.

* * *

Aziraphale’s heart is breaking.

Crowley is looking at him in the most sorrowful way, like Aziraphale had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. And, Aziraphale supposes, in a way he has.

“Let me explain,” Aziraphale says quickly, and he feels like he’s been saying it over and over again but he can’t let Crowley go on without at least something of a reason why Aziraphale had betrayed him so.

“He’s killed hundreds of us,” Crowley says, eyes wide, voice hoarse.

Guilt courses through Aziraphale’s veins. “I know,” he says, grimly.

“How many,” Crowley says, “how many have you killed?”

The words make Aziraphale flinch. “I... I don’t know.”

They both fall into a heavy silence, Crowley looking up at Aziraphale in a way that makes him want to drop to his knees and beg him to forgive him.

Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t know who you are,” he says. “I – was it even real, Aziraphale? Everything we had? Or was it all a lie?”

And at that, Aziraphale does drop to his knees, hands reaching for Crowley’s. “Don’t say that,” he says, wretchedly. “I’m still everything you thought you knew before. I’m still... I’m still the Aziraphale you thought I was. I never lied to you about us. I never lied about how I feel about you.”

“But you’ve killed—”

“—Yes.” Aziraphale’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Yes, I have. And I regret it every day of my life. There’s not a day that I don’t fall asleep and dream of the people I hurt under Gabriel’s watch. And I never want to go back to that again. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t have a choice.”

Crowley says nothing.

“You have to believe me,” Aziraphale says, desperation leaking into his voice. “I never wanted to hurt you, Crowley. I never wanted to... be that. That’s why I left. That’s why I bought the bookshop. That’s not who I want to be.”

He tries and tries, but Crowley’s still shaking his head, still looking at him like he can’t believe his eyes.

“This isn’t right,” he says.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops, his hands quivering. “Crowley,” he begins, softly.

“No,” Crowley says. “No. I can’t listen to this.”

Tears prickle in Aziraphale’s eyes, one slipping silently down his cheek.

“I can’t—” Crowley’s voice chokes as he tries to speak. “I can’t deal with this. I have to go.”

Aziraphale’s chest constricts. “Please don’t leave me,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, tears falling thick and fast down his cheeks. “Crowley, please.”

But Crowley stands, staggering away from Aziraphale like he’s afraid of him, backing away like prey would from a predator.

Aziraphale’s still on his knees. “Please don’t go.”

Crowley backs away and then turns, disappearing back into the shadows. Aziraphale follows, picking himself up from the floor and running through the streets, his feet pattering loudly on the ground.

But Crowley is nowhere to be seen.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and then louder, “_Crowley_,” and then again, and again until his lungs hurt, but it’s too late.


	8. Chapter 8

The bookshop is horribly quiet when Aziraphale gets home. He considers opening it, just to have people around him to make him forget about how terribly empty it is without Crowley around, but he can’t face fighting off customers today.

Instead, he sits on his sofa and stares at the wall. Makes a cup of tea. Watches it grow cold. Makes another.

Eventually, the coffee table is covered in half-empty cups of tepid tea, and it’s only when he doesn’t have room to put down another one does he stop, forcing himself up and into the bedroom.

Looking at it makes his chest constrict. The bed is still mussed up from when he and Crowley had shared it that morning. Aziraphale replays it in his head. Him, eyes barely open, Crowley’s lips brushing against his hair. The shifting of the bed as Crowley left. The note that Crowley had left behind.

Aziraphale had paced the shop for several minutes, twisting the ring around his finger, telling himself not to leave, not to follow him.

He’d done it before, a few times, hand curling around a smooth wooden stake in his pocket, keeping to the shadows as he kept an eye on Crowley, to make sure he was okay. He wasn’t unaware of the irony. For all that time he’d spent getting at Crowley for the lengths he’d gone trying to protect Aziraphale, here he was doing exactly the same thing. Two dangerous beings who couldn’t let the other handle themselves.

_Of course, _Aziraphale thinks, _Crowley didn’t know what you were then. _

His fingers run along the wall behind the bed, feeling the ridges, the damage to the wall where the bed had been slammed against it, which only makes Aziraphale remember the feeling of being under Crowley, his lips on his neck, feeling him everywhere.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but he just sees Crowley there, too. Crowley on the street, staring up at him, the worst kind of betrayed look in his eyes as he looked through Aziraphale like he was someone else. The hollow note to his voice.

“_I can’t deal with this. I have to go.” _

He hadn’t realised just how accustomed he had become to Crowley. Aziraphale had spent several years of his life alone in the interim between escaping Gabriel and meeting Crowley, and he’d been just fine with that, thank you very much. He hadn’t ever considered _needing _anyone before, not after he’d shaken the shackles that Gabriel had kept him in.

But now, his hands quiver, his heart yearning for the presence of the vampire that had marched into his chest and stolen his heart.

That night, Aziraphale sleeps on the sofa, the bed too upsetting for him to bear. It was too big without Crowley to reach out and touch.

That day, Aziraphale searches for Crowley. He considers doing his usual gambit, walking into danger and hoping that Crowley will find him with that sixth sense he has for when Aziraphale’s in trouble, and swoop him out of danger in that way Aziraphale loves so very much. But then he remembers that betrayed look, the _fear _that he’d seen in Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley was afraid of him.

And why shouldn’t he be? Aziraphale had killed Crowley’s kind. Aziraphale had done so without remorse, believing in Gabriel’s righteous message with all of his heart. He’d done it believing that it was a kindness, that he was saving these poor souls from a far worse fate.

Aziraphale slams the door shut, only just realising that he’s been hovering on the bookshop doorstep for the past twenty minutes.

Crowley’s betrayed face. Aziraphale, stake in hand.

Aziraphale sank to his knees on the bookshop floor, his hands clutching onto a table leg as his shoulders shook, his hand curling his shirt, clawing at his heart.

How could Crowley possibly forgive him if Aziraphale couldn’t even forgive himself?

* * *

The silver car appears outside of the bookshop two weeks after the incident.

Aziraphale hasn’t done much of anything in that time, beyond make tea and slump into the sofa, his chin resting upon his chest. He doesn’t open the bookshop. He doesn’t sleep in his bed.

Crowley doesn’t come home.

The time creeps by, and slowly, Aziraphale loses hope.

He hears the sound of the car parking first, backing in front of the bookshop windows. An unusual thing; cars did not often stop in Central London. For a moment, Aziraphale’s ears prick, hope gathering in his chest, and he bolts from his chair, almost knocking a half-empty cup of tea from its home on one of Aziraphale’s side tables, and spilling its contents to the floor. He nearly trips over himself in his haste to get to the door, hoping to see that familiar black Bentley parked out front, bringing Crowley home to him.

The car is familiar, but it isn’t a Bentley.

Aziraphale’s heart drops as he sees it, immediately ducking down behind the window, back pressed against the wall, his heart pounding against his chest.

There’s a knock at the door. Aziraphale presses his eyes shut. Another knock. Aziraphale holds his hands against his chest, hoping and praying that the man behind it will give up and go away.

“Aziraphale,” a voice says. It’s almost jovial, that voice. Brisk and American. It makes Aziraphale’s chest constrict.

“Aziraphale, I know you’re in there,” the voice says when he doesn’t respond.

Aziraphale sighs, pressing his head back against the wall, eyes still closed.

“It isn’t very charitable to leave your old friends on the doorstep,” the voice says. “That’s not very much like you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sits for another few moments, and then takes a deep breath in, summoning his courage.

He opens the door.

“Gabriel,” he says, with as much pleasantry as he can muster. “How nice of you to drop in.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel Hawthorne says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve seen your... new home before.”

Oh, were that Gabriel a vampire. Aziraphale could simply refuse to invite him in and leave him out cold on the doorstep.

But Gabriel stands, silver-suited, his commanding presence such a force that Aziraphale can no sooner kick him out as much as he can knock him over.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, even though he’d rather not share his precious teabags.

“Delightful,” Gabriel says, in a way that suggests the thought is anything but.

He follows Aziraphale into the kitchen nonetheless, and Aziraphale concentrates on boiling the kettle and pulling down teabags from the cupboard, just so that he doesn’t have to think about Gabriel behind him, eyes following him as he bustles around the kitchen.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Aziraphale asks as he hands over a freshly steaming mug of Earl Grey.

Gabriel takes the cup, and Aziraphale doesn’t fail to notice the slight grimace he gives as he holds it.

“You’ve been ignoring my letters,” Gabriel says, matter-of-factly.

“Have I?” Aziraphale blinks, thinking about the bright white envelopes he’s been shoving into the back of drawers to keep outside of sight. “So sorry, I haven’t exactly been keeping up with my post.”

Gabriel’s eyes flicker over to the pile of letters resting on the doormat that Aziraphale hasn’t bothered to pick up. “I can see that.”

“Were they,” Aziraphale begins, his throat tightening somewhat as Gabriel sets a discerning gaze over Aziraphale’s book shop, “important?”

Gabriel wanders over towards one of the windows, tea in hand, casting a conspiratorial eye outside. Aziraphale’s gaze follows. Gabriel fiddles with one of the blinds, closing them and shutting them off from the outside world.

“There has been some unrest,” Gabriel explains, “in _their _world.”

He practically spits the word ‘their’, as if it disgusts him.

He turns his head back to look at Aziraphale. “I presume you’ve seen the news?”

“Right, yes. Murders. Dreadful business,” Aziraphale says, his fingers finding the ring on his right hand.

“Obviously Beelzebub’s getting restless. Tired of hiding in the shadows, the coward,” Gabriel says with a scoff. “One more careless move and I’ll be able to take down their whole operation.”

“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale says, attempting to make his voice light, even though he felt anything but.

“Undoubtedly,” Gabriel says. “Beelzebub’s reign will crumble soon. I’ll be sure of it.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Right. Of course.”

“Which brings me to my point,” Gabriel says, taking a step towards him. “I want you back on my team.”

Aziraphale freezes, hands shaking. Time slows for a bit, before he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs and remembering how to breathe. “No, thank you,” he says.

There’s a flash of something behind Gabriel’s eyes, and for a moment, Aziraphale sees that rage he’d become so familiar with. Almost as soon as it’s there, it’s gone, and Gabriel plasters his face with a wide smile.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, lightly. “I know there were some misunderstandings before you left—”

“I made myself quite clear.” Aziraphale lifts his chin, trying to seem braver than he feels. “I won’t work for you anymore. I’m not part of your team any longer.”

“If this is a confidence issue, Aziraphale, I can assure you, you were one of my best,” Gabriel says. “If you can pull yourself together, maybe do some training... You were a _lean mean fighting machine_.”

He talks like he’s unveiling some great plan, like he’s offering the most persuasive argument, designed to build Aziraphale up, get him to see Gabriel’s side of things.

Aziraphale just feels sick.

Gabriel keeps going, babbling on about Aziraphale’s potential and ability, and Aziraphale is drowning it all out, his mind wandering, thinking – as he so often did these days – of Crowley, of where he might have gone. If he’s okay, if he’s thinking of Aziraphale.

And then Gabriel says, “if you would just lose some weight—”

Aziraphale flinches, dropping the mug in his hand, tea splashing onto the floor, china cracking against the floorboard. It doesn’t touch Gabriel – despite soaking Aziraphale’s trouser-leg and shoes – but Gabriel gives an irritated look anyway, giving an overexaggerated wipe of his shoes against the floorboard.

“These are expensive,” he chides, “and this is what I’m talking about Aziraphale. If you could just _try a little harder, _be a little more _aware, _you could be unstoppable.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I won’t join your team again.” There’s a note of sharpness in his voice and he watches with pleasure as Gabriel’s eyebrows twitch. He won’t bow to Gabriel again. He won’t let Gabriel dictate his life anymore.

“I left for a reason,” Aziraphale says clearly, his voice steady. “I’m not part of that anymore.”

Gabriel’s face darkens.

“I _made _you,” he says, his voice a steel knife edge. “I forged you from nothing. Without me, you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I’m grateful for what you did for me when we were young,” Aziraphale says slowly, “but that doesn’t mean that you get to dictate what I do now.”

Gabriel scoffs. “Look at yourself, Aziraphale,” he spits, gesturing to the bookshop. “Look at this place. It’s halfway to its grave. Is this what you really want? An empty bookshop and no friends to speak of?” 

_I have friends, _Aziraphale wants to snap, but then he’d have to explain Crowley, which would be a terrible idea. _And it’s not as if Crowley is speaking to you, anyway, _he thinks bitterly.

“I’m happy with my choices. I like my life,” Aziraphale says.

Gabriel steps forward, pressing the tea firmly down onto the table. Aziraphale holds his gaze, forcing himself not to move even when he wants to look away and step back.

“You could have been great with me,” Gabriel says, tucking a finger under Aziraphale’s chin, and forcing him to look upwards. “You could’ve have been my successor. You could have had everything. The deadliest vampire killer that ever lived. Thousands would have feared your name.”

He pulls his hand away fast, and Aziraphale almost falls over.

“Without me, you’re nothing,” Gabriel spits.

There’s a wave of anxiety that passes over Aziraphale from those words, a sick feeling settling into his stomach.

But he takes a breath, letting it pass. He thinks about Crowley. He thinks about the five vampire victims, lying forgotten in the streets of London.

He will not be Gabriel’s lackey anymore.

“I’ll take my chances,” Aziraphale says firmly, meeting Gabriel’s eye.

Gabriel’s face is unreadable for a moment, but then Aziraphale sees the storm going on behind Gabriel’s eyes and the tension in his jaw and braces himself from whatever Gabriel’s temper might wreak.

But Gabriel says nothing, just nods. “You’ll change your mind, soon enough,” he says, instead. “And when you do, we’ll be waiting for you.”

Then he sweeps out of the bookshop, the door slamming behind him, and Aziraphale wilts.

He exhales, dropping down onto the sofa, fingers curling around the arm of the chair. For a moment, he stays there, just breathing.

All at once, like a light switching back on, he pulls himself up, life flowing into his limbs again as he stands up out of the chair.

His nose wrinkles as he picks up Gabriel’s untouched mug.

What a waste of tea.

* * *

Crowley returns to his flat.

It feels horribly empty after spending all of his time around Aziraphale’s mess. Aziraphale likes clutter. Aziraphale likes to hoard – he’ll collect anything he can. Books, mostly, and they stack in odd precarious piles in various corners around Aziraphale’s flat in an order that only he could understand. He collects china too – “you’re like somebody’s grandma,” Crowley had once teased him softly, earning himself an indignant huff and gentle smack on the arm – and keeps it carefully locked away in his china cabinet. Aziraphale likes things, he likes owning things and being able to put them on display, announcing who he is and what he likes to anyone that might visit.

Crowley had always been a minimalist. Old human comforts seemed superficial after turning into something less than human – or at least they had until he’d met Aziraphale.

_God fucking damn it. _

Crowley strikes out an arm and smacks a vase, watching it shatter across the floor.

If he could just get his damn mind to _stop _thinking about Aziraphale.

He finds his bed – which he hasn’t been in for at least a month. He’d grown used to the comfort and warmth of Aziraphale’s bed, listening to his breath even in and out as he slept through the night. Aziraphale was enchanting when he was asleep.

Crowley slams a pillow over his head.

It feels like his heart has been torn apart. Aziraphale betrayed him. Aziraphale, good, honest, kind Aziraphale had _lied _to him. For _months. _

He can’t get the image out of his head, Aziraphale standing over him, vampires dust on the floor. How had he missed it? How had he gone that long without realising?

And why, god damn it, why, despite all of the betrayal, despite all of his lies, despite the fear that clutches Crowley’s heart, why can’t he stop thinking about the way Aziraphale stood there, sleeves rolled up to the crook of his elbows, wind rustling his hair, jaw set in a way that was just too heroic for Crowley to handle?

Crowley screws his fingers in his ears. He hasn’t felt this human since he was actually a flesh and blood and breathing human.

For a day, he does nothing but mope. A day turns into a week, which turns into two, all of which Crowley spends alone in his flat, staring at the ceiling. The crescent moon bite marks on his arms fade until his skin is smooth and marble once more, and Crowley considers going to pick a fight in Beelzebub’s den just to get them back again. 

By the time the end of the second week rolls around, Crowley can’t ignore the unbearable burn of thirst anymore, no matter how much he’d like to tear out his own throat just so that he’d never have to feel that insatiable quench anymore. 

He picks his victim carefully, a murderer he’d chanced upon on the evening news, a wretched man who did nasty things to people in the dead of night. Crowley watches the light go out of his eyes as he drains him of blood, and despite his victim being the most despicable man he could find, Crowley hates himself, hates that this is what he is, misses Aziraphale.

Aziraphale consumes at least every other thought, the shadow of him following around everywhere he went, his calm, stubborn voice in his hair. 

Crowley presses his fist against the brick wall of the alleyway he’s just killed a man in, bending his head as he squeezes his eyes closed, begging God or Satan or whoever was looking down at monsters like him to turn back the clock. If he had just stayed at home that night. If he hadn’t been so restless, desperate for a walk.

He returns home, sitting in his bare grey bathroom, washing the blood off his face. The cracked mirror above the sink remains grey, reflecting off the wall.

Crowley traces his fingers across the cool metal surface. If he could see himself now, what would he see? Would he even recognize himself? There wasn’t a part of him that hadn’t been corrupted, twisted or turned rotten. Would he see a monster or a man?

He’d always thought of Aziraphale as the one good thing he had left. The one good thing that he hadn’t managed to taint.

But he’d been wrong. Because Aziraphale wasn’t innocent, or pure, or untouched. He’d been just as much a part of the shadow world as Crowley had. How had he missed it? How could his understanding of one person have been so wrong?

_Had it been wrong? _

Crowley stumbles back, the back of his knees hitting the toilet bowl, and he sank down onto the toilet seat, his hands carding through his hair.

What does he know about Aziraphale?

He knows that Aziraphale likes comfort. He knows that he likes running a bookshop without selling any books. He knows that the way Aziraphale’s eyes light up when he’s at dinner makes Crowley feel human again. He knows that Aziraphale could read until his eyes were sore and not even notice that he’d been sitting in one place for several hours. He knows that Aziraphale likes comfy sweaters and old lived-in coats, he’s unfailingly polite and wonderfully gentle.

But he also knows that Aziraphale is stubborn to a fault, indignant and righteous. He knows that Aziraphale holds his hands out to danger and welcomes it in. He knows that Aziraphale saw a man like Crowley – crooked, broken and wrong – and only ever saw him as someone he could love, deeply and intimately and from the bottom of his heart.

His mind turns elsewhere, recalling the night he’d discovered the scars on Aziraphale’s back, red and angry. And he remembers Aziraphale’s words.

_It wasn’t a vampire that left those scars. _

Crowley’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists, and this time he feels anger, but this time it’s not at Aziraphale.

Someone had forced that upon him. Someone had moulded Aziraphale into a killer, forced him to become something that went against his very nature.

Maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe they were both monsters, forged by someone else’s agenda, corrupted and twisted into their image. Maybe they were both broken creatures, trying to claw their themselves into something good.

And then he thinks of Aziraphale kneeling in the street, tears rolling down his cheeks, begging Crowley not to leave him, to listen, to try and understand.

Aziraphale is attached to him by red string, tied around their hearts. Crowley couldn’t just leave him.

He owes it to Aziraphale to at least try and understand.

He cleans the last of the blood off of himself, finds a blood-free jacket from his wardrobe and tears out of his apartment, stumbling down the stairs as he speeds towards the bookshop, flitting through the shadows faster than light.

When he gets there, the bookshop sign is turned to closed.

“Aziraphale,” he calls, breathlessly, banging on the double doors. “_Aziraphale.” _

There’s no answer.

“_Aziraphale,” _Crowley says again, raising his voice, “we need to talk about what happened. Please open the door. I need you to... I need you to invite me in.”

There’s still no answer.

“Where the heaven are you?” he mutters, and then tries a third time, banging against the door and calling out Aziraphale’s name.

“I don’t think he’s in,” says a voice from behind, and Crowley whips around.

A man is leaning against a silver car, looking at Crowley with a teeth-whitened grin.

It’s only when he speaks again, a sharp-edged voice wrapped in an American accent, that Crowley realises, his stomach dropping, who this man is.

“Anthony J. Crowley. I’ve been looking for you.” 


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley doesn’t come home.

Aziraphale waits for him every day, keeping a steady eye on the street outside the bookshop windows, hoping _desperately _that he’ll see Crowley’s black Bentley roll up next to the store and that he’ll see Crowley’s face again.

He doesn’t think he could bear not seeing Crowley’s face again.

Aziraphale hopes and prays and pleads, calling Crowley over and over, listening to Crowley’s voice on the answering machine, leaving message after messaging, begging him to come back to him.

Crowley never picks up, he never rings back, and Aziraphale slowly but surely begins to lose hope.

He still hasn’t opened the bookshop. The few regular patrons he has as well as his fellow proprietors on the street must think he’s gone on holiday. He’d closed the curtains after spending too many hours staring out at the streets, willing the Bentley to appear. The books gather dust, along with the newly acquired desk and cash registry. Even just looking at that leaves a pang in Aziraphale’s heart.

It takes him another week or so to face facts.

Crowley isn’t ever coming home.

* * *

Crowley wakes, eyes squeezing hard before they opened. He has a splitting headache of the kind that he hasn’t experienced since he was human, and for a moment, it’s all he can focus on, the feeling like he’s been bashed in the skull with a lead pipe.

That’s the first thing that tips him off that something is very wrong indeed.

The second thing is the scorching feeling in his wrists, a deep burn that makes his skin feel like it’s flaking away. His arms are stretched upwards, almost pulled out of their sockets and he looks up to see his wrists encased in silver handcuffs, and that’s when he takes note of the paralyzing feeling in his arms. He can’t move. He’s shirtless and on his knees. The room is dark.

_Fuck. _

How did he get like this? He sifts through fuzzy memories and recalls his feverish journey to Aziraphale’s bookshop, the silver car, the man waiting. A familiar man, someone that he knew—

_Oh, fuck. _

“Ah,” says an American voice from the shadows, “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”

Movement, and then out from the dark emerges _Gabriel Hawthorne, _the most ruthless vampire slayer in human history, clad in a silver suit, a shark-like grin on his face.

“Crowley, is it?” Gabriel says, “I trust you find your new accommodation comfortable.”

“How the fuck did you do this to me?” Crowley spits. “Let me the fuck out.”

Gabriel tuts, taking a step closer. Crowley struggles against his bonds, but the silver cuffs hold him steady, searing his skin unbearably whenever he tries to make a move. Crowley lets out a yelp.

“If you struggle, it’ll only hurt more,” Gabriel says, smiling sweetly. “Best you just keep still, my dear little vampire.”

Crowley snarls. 

“Oh, now, there’s no need for that. Keep that up and we’ll have to gag you, and you won’t much like that. I’ve found an excellent formula for infusing silver and garlic together. I’d hate to have to use it on you.”

Crowley wants to snap, but he forces himself to press his lips into a straight line, bright yellow eyes glaring at Gabriel with an unmatched fury.

Gabriel smiles. “There, see, I knew you could co-operate, given the right motivation.”

“What do you want with me?” Crowley says, trying to keep his voice level.

If Gabriel had wanted to kill him, Crowley would have been dead before he’d made it to the bookshop. Gabriel needs him for something, and Crowley isn’t sure he wants to find out what.

“I’ve been hearing rumours, you see,” Gabriel begins, and Crowley forces himself to look at the man in the eye, even though his gaze sets Crowley’s skin alight, “about an old... employee, of mine. Reports were saying that he’d been keeping company with one of—” Gabriel’s smile turns to a sneer, his lip curling in revulsion, “_your lot._”

_Aziraphale. _

Crowley’s stomach drops. He thinks of Aziraphale, alone in the bookshop with no protection. All this time he’d thought it was vampires he was keeping Aziraphale safe from. He’d never given a thought to other humans.

How had Gabriel found out? They hadn’t been careful enough. Crowley curses himself inwardly. All of his worrying and he _still _hadn’t done enough to keep Aziraphale safe.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crowley says, his attempt at nonchalance just a little lacking.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Really? I suppose the name Aziraphale means nothing to you, then?”

“Nothing at all.” Crowley’s voice is a little high. 

Gabriel catches Crowley’s eyes dotting slightly to the left, his lips curling into the expression of a man who has just heard exactly what he wanted to hear.

“I couldn’t have one of my own consorting with a vampire,” Gabriel says, “if I found out that was true, I’d really have to hurt him.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Crowley hisses before he can stop himself.

_God damn it. _

It had been foolish, but the moment Crowley had heard Gabriel talking about hurting Aziraphale, he’d entire body had been overtaken by rage. His wrists twist at the handcuffs again without thinking and he lets out another yelp of pain.

“That’s what I thought,” Gabriel says, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. “Thank you, for the confirmation.”

“You’ve got me now,” Crowley says, his voice ragged. “You’ve caught me. I am at your mercy. You don’t need to go anywhere near Aziraphale again – you don’t need to hurt him to get to me.”

Gabriel stares at Crowley for a moment and then lets out a guffaw. “Oh, this is – you thought all this was about _you?”_

Crowley freezes.

Gabriel lets out another laugh. “_You? _You think I care so very much about _you?” _Gabriel steps forward, grabbing Crowley’s jaw between his fingers and forcing his head towards him. Crowley snaps his teeth, but Gabriel holds him tight, fingers digging into Crowley’s skin.

“You are _nothing,” _Gabriel spits. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a vampire. I’ve taken down creatures with three times your strength. From what I’ve heard, you don’t even feed on humans if you can possibly help it. I couldn’t be less interested in you if I tried.”

Gabriel yanks his hand away, and Crowley jerks forward, letting out another yell as his hands pull at the cuffs, the silver searing into Crowley’s skin.

“And yet, for some reason, you have captured of the attention of someone I want very much indeed,” Gabriel says. “You could be very useful in turning him back to light.”

“I won’t help you,” Crowley says, his voice hoarse. “I won’t help you hurt him.”

“Oh, now, don’t think of it as hurting him. Think of it as helping him become the person he’s supposed to be. After all,” Gabriel says, and a nasty glint flashes in his eye. “People like him aren’t supposed to be with monsters like _you.” _

The words cut like ice against his skin, and Crowley wants to cry. Hadn’t he said that so many times before? Hadn’t he been the first to say that Aziraphale deserved better?

“He’s better off with me,” Crowley says, lifting his head to glare at Gabriel. “Whatever you say. I’m not the only monster around here.”

Gabriel looks at him, his thoughts imperceptible behind his dark eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you do. Soon Aziraphale will be back in his rightful place, and like it or not, you’re going to help me.”

“I won’t,” Crowley says. “You can do what you like to me. You can kill me if you want. I still won’t help you hurt Aziraphale.”

“We’ll see about that,” Gabriel says. “I’m going to make him see sense. I’m going to make him see what you really are. I’m going to show him the monster you can’t keep yourself from being.”

Then he turns towards the shadows. “You might as well come out, Beelzebub.”

Crowley’s ears prick at the name and he lifts his head in horror. Sure enough, a familiar small figure appears from the dark, clad in their usual tattered black jacket, and messy dark hair. Their eyes are not their usual dark red, instead, they are bright white.

“Beelzebub here has been part of a little experiment of mine,” says Gabriel, his hands clapping down on Beelzebub’s shoulders. “And I’ve found it especially effective.”

Crowley pales, staring at the vampire opposite, expecting to see them struggle against Gabriel’s grip, to bite and scratch and claw at him and fight in every way that he knows Beelzebub for, but they don’t move. They stay, standing straight-backed beneath Gabriel’s grip. There is nothing behind their eyes, utterly blank.

Crowley’s voice is quiet as he says, “what have you done to them?”, his eyes wide.

“Don’t you like it?” Gabriel says. “Took me _years _to perfect the formula.”

He clicks his fingers several times in front of Beelzebub’s face. They don’t react, not even to blink.

“Total submission,” Gabriel explains. “No free will at all. Imagine the things you could do with a tame vampire at your side. All the power you can have. Having the world’s ultimate predator under your command? It’s almost too much.”

Gabriel takes a deep breath, clapping his hands together. “It’s been years in the making, but I’m finally getting there. I’m going to have full control of the entire world. Nothing will get in my way.”

Crowley stares in horror at the sight in front of him, Beelzebub, the vampire that created him, the vampire that reigned havoc across all of London, completely submissive to Gabriel’s will. The thought makes him feel sick.

Then Beelzebub’s eyes flutter, the white receding.

Gabriel produces a syringe from his pocket. “It’s a pity you have to keep administering it,” he says, sliding the needle into Beelzebub’s neck. The white returns to their eyes, back to that blank stare. “Once I’ve figured out how to make it permanent, I’ll be _unstoppable. _That’s why I need Aziraphale. He always was the creative thinker.”

“He won’t help you,” Crowley says. “Whatever you do to me, he won’t help you. However much you hurt me, however much you hurt _him, _he won’t help you.”

Gabriel looks up, a grin flickering across his face, producing another syringe from his pocket. “But I’m not going to be the one hurting him, am I?”

Then he takes a step forward and slides the needle into Crowley’s neck.

* * *

Since Crowley’s departure from his life, Aziraphale has become positively depressed.

He doesn’t move much from his sofa. His living space gradually becomes covered in half-drunk mugs of tea, and when he runs out of teabags, he just sits in an armchair and stares at the wall.

Everything seems pointless without someone to share it with. Opening the shop gives Aziraphale very little satisfaction. Even sitting in a comfy chair with a good book to read and a steaming cup of cocoa doesn’t seem appealing anymore. The world had become very grey, indeed. 

He almost loses hope, letting himself drape across the sofa, sure that at some point he might just sink in between the cushions and become part of the furniture. What purpose did life have if Crowley wasn’t in it?

And then one day, just as Aziraphale’s planning on drowning himself in blankets and cushions, the phone trills.

The sound of it snaps Aziraphale out of his reverie and he scrambles up towards the phone, snatching it out of the receiver and putting it to his ear.

“Hello?” he says, hardly daring to hope.

“Aziraphale?” a voice says on the other end, and Aziraphale almost wants to sob at the sound of it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. “Crowley, darling, where are you? I’m so – I’m so, so, sorry for everything. Please let me explain everything.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and there’s something wrong with his voice. It sounds almost mechanical.

“My dear, are you quite alright?”

“Gabriel’s got me,” Crowley says.

Panic seizes Aziraphale’s heart. It pounds in his ears, and he puts out a hand on the table to keep himself steady.

“What? Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Gabriel’s got me,” Crowley repeats, “he’s got me in his house. You have to come. I need your help.”

“I’m coming,” Aziraphale says, already scrabbling to put shoes on his feet and get to his coat by the door, forgetting the phone cord and almost dragging the whole phone off with him. “I’m coming, my love, I promise. I’m coming to rescue you.”

“Help me,” Crowley says on the other end of the phone, “_help me.” _

And then the other line goes silent.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Aziraphale says, slamming the phone down onto the receiver. “I’m coming, Crowley.”

* * *

It’s dark when Aziraphale arrives at Gabriel’s mansion.

The house is huge, an old stately home that Gabriel had turned into his headquarters long ago. Standing on the long driveway makes Aziraphale’s stomach turn to knots, his mouth drying as memories of his time here come rushing back. He thinks about the scars on his back, of Gabriel’s voice, loud and unpleasant in his ear, sneering at him.

He’d promised himself long ago that he wasn’t going to set another foot here. When he’d gathered all of his courage, taken a breath and told Gabriel in no uncertain terms that he would no longer work for him, and that he had bought a bookshop and would be making his own way in life from now on, he’d made a promise to himself that he would never again come back here. He was done with this place, with the bad memories, and the person he used to be. He was done with all of it.

And now, standing in front of the big oak door, Gabriel’s silver car on the drive, Aziraphale wants to run. He wants to run, leave this poisonous place behind and never return.

But Crowley is inside, he’s in trouble, and he needs Aziraphale, and Aziraphale won’t give up Crowley for the world. So, he takes a deep breath, gathers himself, and rings the doorbell.

The doors open almost immediately, and Aziraphale finds himself once again looking into the face of Gabriel Hawthorne, trying not to throw up.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel says, cheerfully, opening his arms up. “What a wonderful surprise! Do come in.”

Aziraphale follows Gabriel into the home, feeling rather like a mouse following a cat. 

“What do I owe this pleasure?” Gabriel says, leading Aziraphale into the sitting room.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Aziraphale says, trying to keep his breath level, doing his best not to grab Gabriel and beg him to tell him where Crowley is, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right. I do belong on your team.”

“I knew you’d come around. You were always one of us, after all. You can’t ever change that.”

“No. I suppose I can’t,” says Aziraphale.

“Well, where to begin? You’ll have to move back in, of course, and sell that old bookshop of yours. We’ll have to retrain you as well, I’m sure your skills must be a little rusty. And you’re getting a bit porky,” Gabriel says, playfully punching Aziraphale in the stomach. “We’ll put you on a weight loss plan.”

Aziraphale steps back, his hands shaking a little, resisting the urge to push Gabriel away. “Right,” he says. “Of course.”

“Oh,” Gabriel says, clapping his hands together. “And you’ll need to see our new addition to headquarters, our very own dungeons.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Dungeons?”

That _had _to be where Crowley was being held.

“Yes, state of the art. Built entirely to my specifications. Bars made of silver, and the like.”

Aziraphale swallows. “I should like to see them very much.”

“Getting straight back into it, aren’t you?” Gabriel says, “I love it! Right this way.”

He leads Aziraphale towards a backroom and then opens up a trapdoor, a set of stairs appearing out of nowhere.

“Lead the way,” Gabriel says, gesturing down into the dark.

Aziraphale looks down into the shadows, unsure. He’s walking into a trap, and he knows it. Whatever’s down there won’t be pleasant, but _Crowley’s _down there, so he steels himself, and walks down into the basement.

Inside, the darkness is complete. It takes a moment for Aziraphale’s eyes to adjust, and then he just makes out the shadowy form of a set of cells.

Gabriel flicks a switch, and the cellar lights up, and Aziraphale almost cries out.

There are hundreds of them, rows and rows of silver cell doors and bars, and behind each one is a vampire, in all states of being. Some of them scream at Aziraphale, banging their hands against the silver door and then crying out as it burns against their skin. Some of them are sobbing and begging for help. But the worst are the ones that are catatonic, staring blankly at the cell doors, looking right through Aziraphale and saying nothing.

It’s unnerving. Aziraphale wants to look away.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” says Gabriel, and Aziraphale can’t stop himself from flinching when Gabriel’s hands clap down onto his shoulders. “All of these monsters, in their rightful place.”

_No, _Aziraphale wants to say. _No, it’s not. It’s horrendous. _

“Quite,” Aziraphale says instead, not trusting himself to say anything more, not trusting his hands not to move and shake Gabriel and say, _what the hell have you done? _

“Hundreds of test subjects,” Gabriel says, and he sounds almost gleeful. “All ready to try out new anti-undead weapons. One day every ungodly creature will be down here. It’s going to be incredible.”

Aziraphale wants to throw up. Instead, he does a quick scan of the cells. Crowley is nowhere to be seen.

“Is this all of them? Or are there more?” he asks.

“Not quite,” Gabriel says. “In fact, there’s something else I want to show you.”

He leads Aziraphale down a dark corridor, sweeping towards a metal door. He pulls it open, gesturing in.

“Go on, go in,” he says, “it’s right inside.”

Ignoring his instincts to run and get away from here as far as possible, Aziraphale takes a step inside.

And then the door crashes shut behind him, the swift sweep of a lock turning. Aziraphale turns back, banging his hand against the door.

“Gabriel, what are you doing? Let me out!”

“You didn’t think I believed that act of yours, did I?”

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. He’s been tricked.

“There’s someone in there I want you to meet,” Gabriel says. “He’s been dying to see you.”

Aziraphale turns, his heart hammering hard.

There’s a figure waiting for him at the end of the room.

And then Aziraphale’s eyes adjust, making out a mop of red hair and a flash of white teeth. He takes a step forward.

“Crowley?” he says, his heart pounding hard. 

Crowley appears, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps. But something’s wrong. Instead of their usual beautiful gold colour, Crowley’s eyes are fully white, and there’s a dangerous way that he’s looking at Aziraphale, like he’s ready to pounce, and not in the wonderful way Aziraphale’s become so accustomed to.

“Crowley?” he says again, ever so softly. “It’s me - Aziraphale.”

Crowley says nothing, just staring right through Aziraphale as if he’s not even there.

“What’s wrong with him?” Aziraphale demands, turning to face Gabriel through the metal door. “What have you done to him?”

“I haven’t done anything to him,” Gabriel says. “I’m just trying to show you his true nature. Crowley, _kill him.”_

To Aziraphale’s horror, Crowley lunges forward, his teeth bared, claws out. Aziraphale darts back, only just missing the swipe of Crowley’s claws, sweeping out of the way.

“This is what they’re like, Aziraphale. Monsters,” Gabriel says from behind the door. “All they do is kill. They don’t know anything else. They don’t know joy. They don’t know pain. They don’t know love.”

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale says, directing it towards Gabriel, then he turns back towards Crowley. “_That’s not true. _I’ve never met anyone who loves the way you love, Crowley.”

Crowley doesn’t seem to hear him, letting out a snarl, baring his sharp, venom-filled teeth. He flits about him, faster than light. Aziraphale has no way out.

Sure enough, he finds himself slammed against the floor, Crowley above him, his hand poised to strike against his neck, jaw wide open. All trace of the Crowley that Aziraphale knows is gone. The soft Crowley that treated Aziraphale so tenderly is gone. The Crowley that would never, _ever, _do anything to hurt Aziraphale is gone. Instead, there is just this terrifying killing machine, ready to take him from this world.

“You don’t want to do this,” Aziraphale says, quickly. “This isn’t you, Crowley. This isn’t you.”

The Crowley sitting on top of him doesn’t seem to care, his eyes filled with a fury, jaw open, mouth dripping, ready to tear a chunk out of Aziraphale’s neck.

Tears begin to fall down Aziraphale’s cheeks, thick and fast.

“You don’t want to do this,” Aziraphale says, cheeks wet with tears. His hands slide up towards Crowley’s face, fingers tracing his jaw. “This isn’t you, Crowley, my love. You don’t want this. You don’t want to do what Gabriel says.”

“That’s all he wants,” Gabriel barks from behind the door. “He acts on my command, and my command alone. You heard me, Crowley. Kill him.”

The distraction is enough for Aziraphale to pull himself out from underneath Crowley’s grip, but with this new instruction, Crowley’s bearing down on him again, those sharp teeth of his glinting in the dim light.

“You can get yourself out of this, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “You can do it in the way we always taught you. I know you keep a stake in your pocket. You can live.”

Aziraphale ignores him and keeps facing Crowley.

“You can fight this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sharply. “Whatever he’s done to you, you can fight it. You don’t have to do what he says.” 

“Yes, you do,” Gabriel spits.

Aziraphale keeps his attention focused on Crowley, his fingers reaching Crowley’s face and stroking gently.

“I love you,” he says, his voice faltering from the tears. “I love you, I love you, I love you. You can fight this, Crowley. You can _fight this.” _

“Kill him!” Gabriel hisses from behind the door, and Aziraphale’s no longer sure if he’s directing it at Crowley or Aziraphale or both of them together.

Crowley takes the instruction and growls, slamming Aziraphale’s hand away from his face. 

“Kill him or I’ll have him kill you,” Gabriel commands, and now Aziraphale’s sure it was directed at him.

He reaches into his back pocket, his hand curling around the familiar wood, pulling out the stake.

“Yes.” Gabriel’s eyes are aflame, his hands curled into fists on the door. “Do it. Be the man you’re supposed to be.”

Aziraphale throws it swiftly to the side, letting it clatter to the floor out of his reach.

“I won’t do it,” he says. “I won’t kill you, Crowley, so if one of us has to die, it’s going to be me.”

“You pathetic excuse for a human,” Gabriel snaps. “_Fine. _Crowley, kill him.”

Crowley’s hands clamp around his throat, pulling Aziraphale into the air and slamming him against the wall, his fingers digging into his neck.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, whispers one last, “I love you,” and readies himself for the killing blow.


	10. Chapter 10

Crowley can’t keep control of his body.

It moves without his say. With every word that Gabriel utters, he feels compelled to follow through. It becomes his only purpose; his body is helpless to do anything but obey.

He watches himself, screaming in horror, as he launches blow after blow at Aziraphale, barely missing him as he dodges out of the way.

He can feel Aziraphale’s fingertips on his face, utterly soft and gentle, those wide blue eyes blinking up at him.

“You don’t have to do this, Crowley,” he says, and Crowley can almost taste the salt of the tears on his face, his heart breaking as he is powerless to stop his limbs from moving to hurt the one person he holds the most dear in all of the world. 

“You can fight this,” he says.

_I’m bloody trying! _Crowley screams inside his head, willing with all of his might to regain control of his body, but nothing seems to work. No matter what he does, he can’t seem to stop himself from reaching out to scar Aziraphale’s body.

A stray fling of his claws catches Aziraphale on the arm, and his usually soft skin wells up, blood welling up from the wound.

This only makes it worse. The moment the smell of the blood hits Crowley’s nostrils, he’s overtaken by that familiar desire, that desperate thirst that can’t ever be quenched. Not only does he have to fight a body that is no longer his, but he also has to stop himself from launching at Aziraphale and draining him dry.

“Fight this, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, “you can fight this.”

He tries. He tries because the love of his life is in front of him, weeping gently and begging him to stop, and Crowley’s ears are ringing, and blood is rushing everywhere, and he wants to kill and drink and bite and—

“Kill him, and or I’ll have to kill you,” he hears Gabriel say and barely registers that it’s directed to Aziraphale.

It feels as if he’s watching this behind a pane of glass, slamming his fists hard against the pane but unable to get anyone to hear him. He watches Aziraphale pull out the stake from his pocket and at last, it feels like he can take a breath. Aziraphale’s going to end this, after all. Aziraphale’s going to get himself out of here. Aziraphale’s going to _live. _

But then he watches as Aziraphale tosses it to the side, his last hope of living, and Aziraphale living.

_What are you doing, you idiot? _Crowley screams inside his head. _I’m not worth dying for. _

But Aziraphale is looking at him with those wide eyes again, and he says, “I won’t do it, Crowley,” and Crowley’s screaming and roaring in inside his head, begging Aziraphale to just _think of himself for once, _because he can’t stop this, he can’t stop himself from hurting Aziraphale no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he wills himself to stop.

“I won’t kill you, Crowley, so if one of us has to die, it’s going to be me,” Aziraphale says.

_No! _Crowley roars inside his head. _No! _

He can’t do this. He can’t watch Aziraphale die. He can’t watch the love of his life die at his hand.

He dimly registers Gabriel’s voice sneering, “you pathetic excuse for a human!” and for a moment his body pauses, briefly filled with rage at Gabriel’s words, almost enough to make him stop, but then—

“Crowley, kill him,” Gabriel says, and Crowley is filled with fresh compulsion, Gabriel’s formula rushing through his veins and forcing his limbs to move.

_No. No. No. No. No. No. _

He’s surging forward before he can stop himself, grabbing Aziraphale by the scruff of the neck, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s skin. He’s squeezing the life out of him, little by little.

_No, _Crowley cries desperately, but his body doesn’t listen. All he can do is snarl and snap and squeeze his fingers into Aziraphale’s throat.

The worst thing is that his body is thriving on it. He feels more energized than he has in weeks. With every order he takes from Gabriel, he gains a little strength back, his limbs reigniting, his breath returning. His body _wants to do this. _His body wants to take the life from Aziraphale.

What’s more, Aziraphale seems almost resigned. His eyes flutter shut as if he’s just about ready to fall asleep.

His fingertips find Crowley’s on his throat, gently brushing Crowley’s skin.

“_I love you,” _he whispers, gently.

And Crowley’s heart is breaking, his brain is screaming, his body is willing him to dig his fingers in further, to tear Aziraphale’s throat out, and Crowley gives one last try, one last scream and then—

His fingers loosen, just a little.

Aziraphale’s eyes open.

“Crowley?” he says.

Crowley still has his hands around Aziraphale’s neck, he’s still snarling, but his limbs don’t move.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his hands thread up towards Crowley’s face, cupping his cheek. “I love you.”

Something in Crowley’s heart breaks free and his hands loosen just a little bit.

“I love you,” Aziraphale continues, his voice louder, tears falling fast and free down his face. “I love you, Crowley. I can feel you fighting this. You can do this. You’re the strongest person I know.”

And sure enough, Crowley feels the hold Gabriel’s compulsion had on him lessen.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Gabriel snaps from behind the door, “Kill him.”

Crowley feels the rush of compulsion, can feel the way his limbs want to move, but he holds fast, keeps his limbs steady.

“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know you,” Aziraphale says, his voice so very soft. “He doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t know how strong you are or how brave. You can fight this, Crowley. I believe in you. I love you.”

Crowley’s grip loosens even further. His jaw unclenches, and the snarl that had been involuntarily pulled from the back of his throat dies. He feels his limbs loosen and his heartbeat gently slow down.

And gradually, despite Gabriel’s torrent of commands from behind the door, he feels his eyes clear.

A smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face, dimples lighting up his cheeks.

“There you are,” he says, hand reaching up to cup Crowley’s cheek.

The spell breaks. Crowley surges forward, gathering Aziraphale into his arms and squeezing as hard as he dares.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers, “Aziraphale, fuck, I’m so, so sorry.”

He breathes in the scent of him, warm and soft and utterly _Aziraphale, _his love, his angel, and weeps gently. “I didn’t want – I didn’t mean, oh _god, _I hurt you—”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, gently, his hand reaching to stroke through Crowley’s hair. “I’m here. You didn’t hurt me. It wasn’t your fault. He made you do it.”

The door slams open, striking against the wall, and the two of them tense, clinging onto each other for dear life.

“Well, this is sickening,” Gabriel says. “Clearly, I miscalculated. It seems you need a stronger dose.”

Before Crowley can stop him, Aziraphale launches in front of Crowley, a barrier between slayer and vampire.

“Don’t you _dare.” _

“I knew you’d fallen from grace, Aziraphale, but I never thought you’d fall so far as to consort with one of _those,” _Gabriel sneers.

“He’s a better man than you could ever hope to be,” Aziraphale says.

“An abomination like that shouldn’t exist,” says Gabriel.

Aziraphale’s lips set into a hard line, his eyes aflame with fury. “That’s not something you get to decide.”

“You were one of us once, Aziraphale. You knew the true order of things.”

“You manipulated me. You made me believe that this – this_ torture—_” Aziraphale gestures wildly out into corridor behind Gabriel, towards the cages and cages of vampires— “was necessary. _Good, _even. Well, not anymore. I know you for who you truly are, and I won’t be a part of it. Not for a single second. Crowley and I are _leaving._”

Gabriel looks startled for a second, but then recovers, his expression twisting in fury. “You can’t honestly think I would just let you leave.”

“It’s one on two, Gabriel. Even with your prowess, you’re no match for Crowley and me. We’re stronger together.”

Aziraphale’s hand reaches out and his fingers thread with Crowley’s.

Crowley wants to kiss him almost as much as he wants to shake him.

Gabriel’s expression turns and Crowley’s heart sinks. He’s seen that expression before.

“Oh, dear, Aziraphale, you cannot possibly think that I’m the only one here to stop you,” he says, and then calls, “Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon!”

Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s shoulders tense, and then jolts back as a hand clamps a silver gag across his face, searing pain exploding across his lips. He struggles to pull away, but his body is paralyzed by the silver, his arms flailing outwards, only to be roughly tugged backwards and stuffed back into handcuffs.

He watches, helplessly, his yells muffled by the gag on his lips, as a bald man with a gold tooth, clamps his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth, and holds him steady.

His last memory is of Gabriel’s grin before everything fades to black.


	11. Chapter 11

The cell floor is uncomfortably cold, and Aziraphale is only a little embarrassed to think about how his usually pristine trousers are getting covered in dirt. His hands are bound behind his back in chains, his ankles shackled to the floor.

His head is pounding, his last memory being struck by Sandalphon, watching helplessly as his dear Crowley was rendered still by the silver Uriel had gagged him with.

Oh, his poor, poor Crowley. Guilt consumes Aziraphale. If Crowley had never met Aziraphale, he would never have been caught up in this slayer nonsense. If they had never met, Crowley would have been able to continue his life, free to find food from blood banks and to exist harmoniously with humans.

If Crowley had never been caught up in Aziraphale’s messy life, maybe he would have escaped this pain.

There’s a gentle moan of pain from across the room, and Aziraphale’s head tilts upward. Crowley is tied just opposite, silver chains wrapped around his arms. Aziraphale can see the welts on Crowley’s skin from where the silver has bitten into him, burning away his flesh.

Aziraphale holds back a growl. When he’s out of this, make no mistake, Gabriel’s going to _pay. _

At least they had freed the vampire from the gag. Aziraphale can see the ugly red gash across Crowley’s face, a scar in his skin he was never supposed to have.

Crowley lets out another moan.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, softly. “Are you awake?”

“Awake and breathing, angel,” comes Crowley’s rough voice. “Just about.”

“I am sorry. This is all my fault.”

“S’not,” Crowley says. “Only Gabriel’s fault.”

“I’m the reason why Gabriel’s doing this to you.”

Crowley leans his head back, exposing that lovely neck of his. He’s really rather lovely to look at, even under these circumstances. Despite the worry, despite the guilt, Aziraphale’s eyes rake over Crowley’s bare torso, his lean stomach, the edges of his hipbones peaking just over his leather trousers.

It’s been weeks since Aziraphale has seen him and his heart thuds in his throat. It’s painful, being this close and being unable to touch him. Aziraphale just wants to throw his arms around Crowley as tight as possible and beg him to forgive him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his head rolls back up.

“Yes?”

“I don’t understand you, sometimes,” Crowley says. His voice is a rough scrape of rock against gravel, ragged and breathless. When he breathes, his chest heaves, like it’s a terrible effort to bring air into his lungs.

Aziraphale has never seen Crowley looking so rough. He’d always seemed so indestructible.

“What do you mean?”

Crowley bends his head back again, and Aziraphale sees him wince as his hands pull at the cuffs holding him steady. The back of his head touches the stone wall. His eyes are closed.

“How does something like you end up working for... someone like him?” Crowley asks.

It’s a fair question, even if it’s one that makes him nervous.

Seeing Gabriel now, cruel and cold and utterly heartless, makes Aziraphale wonder how he could have ever thought that Gabriel was right.

“He took me in,” Aziraphale explains, “when my parents died. I must have been about nine.”

He watches as Crowley’s eyes slide open. He’s trying to hide it, but he can feel them on him, golden yellow and bright. It feels like they’re burning into his soul.

Aziraphale ducks his head and stares down at his feet. He wants something to fiddle with so badly, something just to have his hands moving so that he had something to focus on, but his hands were firmly tied behind his back.

He takes a breath. “Gabriel raised me. Called me his ward. An outdated concept but he’s... fond of tradition. He gave me everything; a bed, a place to live. Food. Always wanted to remind me about how good I had it with him, and how lucky I was to live with him. He took good care of me. Or – or so I thought.”

Aziraphale braves a look up at Crowley again. His eyes are closed once more, but Aziraphale still gets the sense that he’s listening very closely.

“I can’t remember when he started training me. I remember having a knife in my hand more than I didn’t. We’d do exercises until I felt like my arm would drop off. He didn’t tolerate weakness, Gabriel. Didn’t like that I put on weight and couldn’t lose it, no matter how hard I tried. We were all supposed to be at peak physical fitness.”

Crowley’s head shifts. “We?”

“There were more of us. Gabriel had a whole load of children he took in and trained. Some of them weren’t orphans. He paid parents for their children to come and live and train with him. I gather he made some of those parents offers they couldn’t possibly refuse,” Aziraphale says.

“Did you know?” Crowley says, roughly. “What you were training for?”

“Not at first. He told us bit by bit over the years, told us that there was a secret world out there, that there were creatures that were – “forged by hell itself” – I believe were the words he used. Abominations. We were taught that they thirsted on human blood, that they were insatiable, that it was a kindness to kill them, because they weren’t humans anymore, they’d been twisted. We were angels, he told us, agents of a higher power, fighting against the darkness.”

Aziraphale says the words bitterly, his fingers twisting behind him, searching for any way that he might be able to slip out of these chains and get them both out of here. No luck. The iron held tight around Aziraphale’s skin, and his efforts to free himself only served to tie his restraints tighter.

“I believed him,” Aziraphale says, his voice low. “I believed him with everything that I had. I wanted to be a good student. I wanted to be a good soldier for him. I wanted to be everything that he taught me, because I believed everything that Gabriel had told us was right. I couldn’t fathom that those creatures Gabriel spoke of could be good, could be... anything like us. I wanted to rid the world of them.”

He watches Crowley intently, waiting carefully for the moment when Crowley’s eyes snap open, for him to snap at Aziraphale, to ask him how he could have been this, to say that he can’t trust him anymore, to blame him for the pain he’s in, to say he never wants to see him again.

But Crowley does nothing. He just sits and waits, watching Aziraphale expectantly.

So Aziraphale keeps speaking.

“He got crueller as the years went by. We were never enough for Gabriel, no matter what we did – at least, I wasn’t. I could never please him, I was always doing something wrong. I was never good enough. I wasn’t fit enough, I wasn’t smart enough, and I wasn’t strong enough. He started yelling a lot more. I don’t think there was a day that I wasn’t screamed at. When I got older, and we were all drafted to work for Gabriel – he called us his employees, made us contracts and everything like he was an actual boss – but really we were an army and he was our commanding officer. I spent years under him, believing that I wasn’t... good enough. I kept trying as hard as I could to meet Gabriel’s standards, but I never quite managed it, no matter how many hours I trained. I trained until my fingers bled. Until my back ached. My fingertips had so many splinters from all the stakes. I trained until I stopped sleeping, staying up all night to remember footwork and fighting moves and exercises. I did it until one day my body stopped working.”

There’s a pained look on Crowley’s face now, and Aziraphale purses his lips. _Those silver cuffs must really be bothering him,_ he thought to himself. What had he gotten Crowley into?

A heavy silence comes over the room, while Aziraphale just stares at the floor, feeling guilty.

Crowley opens one eye. “Keep going,” he says. “Tell me... tell me what happened to you.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Gabriel found me,” he says, voice faltering a little. “I’d collapsed. He wasn’t best pleased. ‘Soldiers don’t faint,’ he told me. ‘People employed by me aren’t weak.’ But I _was _weak. I couldn’t fight.”

“That’s not true,” Crowley cuts in, sharply.

Aziraphale blinks. “It’s not?”

“I saw the way you fought those vampires. The ones trying to kill me. You destroyed them like it was nothing.”

“No matter who you are, you don’t come away from Gabriel without learning something,” Aziraphale explains. “Whatever my ability, it wasn’t good enough for Gabriel. One day he decided I need more... motivation, he called it.”

Crowley looks up. “Those scars on your back.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale admits heavily. “He said that if I had something motivating me, I might work harder. I’ll have his ‘reminders’ for as long as I’ll live.”

There’s a heavy pause, and then Crowley lets out a snarl. Aziraphale shrinks back. Finally. This is finally the moment that Crowley decides he’s had enough, Aziraphale thinks. This is the point where Crowley won’t forgive him anymore.

Crowley opens his mouth, and Aziraphale expects him to ask, _if you hated it so much, why didn’t you just leave? _He expects him to hiss, _how could you stay with a man like that? _He expects, _you should have just left. _

Instead, Crowley snarls, “I am going to kill him.”

Crowley jerks his hands at the restraints, letting out a painful hiss as his wrists burn on the silver.

“Crowley, please, don’t—”

Crowley lets out a ragged breath and another snarl.

“The second I get myself out of here, I am going to find him and I’m going to kill him,” Crowley growls. “How dare he – how dare he treat you like that? I’m going to find him and _rip his throat.” _

“You’ll have to get in line,” Aziraphale says, ice lacing through the words.

Crowley blinks, his rage momentarily halted and Aziraphale realises that he probably hasn’t heard him speak so coldly before.

“He took my whole childhood from me,” Aziraphale says. “He took it, ruined it and twisted me into a person I never wanted to be. He made me a killer. I’ve killed people. People like you. I can’t take it back. I can’t bring those people back their lives. I’m a killer, Crowley. This is what I am, and I can never change that, _because of him.” _

Crowley frowns as if he wants to protest, but Aziraphale’s face is set so firmly, that he doesn’t dare.

Instead, he asks, his voice much softer, “how did you manage to get out?”

“I reached a point – far, _far, _later than I should have – when I realised that I didn’t want this anymore. And that I was an adult, and nobody could make me stay. I’d been saving money from the beginning – I don’t think Gabriel would have paid us if he could have gotten away with it, but he ran his army like a job and he wouldn’t have been able to convince people to stay otherwise – so I kept saving, kept it hidden until I had enough to move out, and then I told him I was leaving.”

“How did he take it?”

Aziraphale smiles without mirth. “Not very well.”

There’s that pained look on Crowley’s face again. His lip curls, like he’s about to say something else, but instead his face softens, and he asks, “what happened after that?”

“I left. Found myself a job in a bookshop – I loved books, even back then. Read everything I could get my hands on when I was with Gabriel. The owner was fond of me, I think. I was so scared back then. I still believed everything Gabriel had taught me back then. I was convinced that I was in danger. I almost went back to Gabriel’s a few times. I thought that was the only place I’d be safe.”

Aziraphale lungs heave a breath. Talking about this was harder than he thought it’d be, but after so long of keeping things away from Crowley and hiding his past, he can’t keep it in any longer. He feels like he might burst at the weight of it.

“I still trained, by myself this time. I made sure I knew I could keep myself safe, so that I’d never have to go back to Gabriel’s, so that I wouldn’t ever have to be under his thumb again. And somehow... along the way, I started to realise that the creatures Gabriel had warned us against, vampires, weren’t so different from me. They didn’t choose to be made into what they were, just as I hadn’t when Gabriel took me in. I was a scared child who needed someone to look after him, not someone who wanted to become a soldier in a war that wasn’t mine to fight. And I decided, then, that it wasn’t my decision who lives or dies. Nor was it Gabriel’s. And I realised that I much preferred comfort to being on edge all the time. If the most radical choice I could make was to be kind to myself, to let myself have the comforts I’d been denied for all of my life, then that was the choice I was going to make.”

Aziraphale ends his speech with an exhale, feeling like he was taking the whole world off his shoulders.

“And then I met you,” he says. “And I realised that there was one thing I wanted more than anything in the whole world. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you who I was sooner, Crowley. I was afraid you’d leave, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. And I understand, if you still do want to leave. I should have been honest from the beginning, and it’s my fault that you’ve been caught up in all of this.”

Aziraphale takes a long breath, resting his head back against the stone wall, and closing his eyes, the weight of his story and his apology still weighing on his chest. He doesn’t know what Crowley will say next.

And then he hears a sniff, and his eyes open.

Across the room, Crowley frowns, hot and angry tears spilling over his cheeks.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, softly.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice shakes, his fingers curling around his cuffs. “If we get out of this - _when_ we get out of this, I’m going to take you as far away from him as possible. I’ll give you that life you want. I won’t run away anymore, I’ll stay. I’ll give you that life that you fought for.”

Aziraphale’s heart pounds in his chest, his lower lip wobbling. “Really?”

“I promise. You don’t have to be what he wanted you to be, _ever_.”

“And you’re not the monster he thinks you are. You never have been,” Aziraphale says.

Aziraphale closes his eyes again. The ache in his chest is almost too much to bear, and he feels as if he might die if he can’t get himself out of these chains and pull himself into Crowley’s arms sometime soon. 

Judging by the way Crowley is pulling at his handcuffs again, looking at Aziraphale so intently it makes his skin feel like it’s burning, Crowley feels the same way.


	12. Chapter 12

Crowley isn’t sure how long they’ve been left for. His throat, already parched and screaming out for blood, is now unbearable, the thirst coursing through his veins so intense he feels as if he may explode just from the sheer magnitude of it.

It doesn’t help that Aziraphale is just across the floor from him, wrapped in chains, looking utterly helpless. He’d fallen asleep a few hours before, sheer exhaustion taking over his body and causing his head to droop against his chest. His soft curls are covered in dirt, and Crowley can see where a patch of hair has been tugged out during the fight they’d had.

_He_ had done that. That was there because of _him._

_No, _Crowley thinks to himself, forcefully. This was all Gabriel. Gabriel had made him fight. Gabriel had made him hurt Aziraphale.

Whenever Crowley looks his way, he feels that familiar white-hot rage come over him again. He could barely keep it in the whole time Aziraphale was telling his story, and it had taken everything in him not to try and wrench his wrists out of the handcuffs, go find Gabriel and rip him to pieces. If the silver hadn’t been keeping his arms paralyzed and wasn’t leaving such a scorching mark wherever they touched, he might have tried already.

_Fuck, _he feels guilty. If he had just _stayed _after Aziraphale had rescued him from those vampires, if he had just stayed and listened to Aziraphale instead of running away like a coward, then maybe neither of them would be in this mess.

Aziraphale doesn’t deserve all of this, not after spending so long and trying so hard to secure his freedom.

_The second we get out of here, _Crowley vows to himself, _I am taking him away and making sure he never knows pain again._

Without warning, the iron door strikes against the brick wall, letting out an almighty clang that sets off Crowley’s fight-or-flight response and rips Aziraphale from sleep.

Crowley’s limbs tense, his eyes snapping up to connect for a moment with Aziraphale’s, before the two of them both turn to see Gabriel in the doorway, arms folded.

“Time to try a different tack, I think,” Gabriel says. “Sandalphon, Michael, if you would please.”

Gabriel’s lackeys appear from outside the door, and to Crowley’s horror, they advance on Aziraphale, reaching for his chains.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Crowley spits, jerking forwards and crying out in pain.

_God fucking damn those handcuffs._

The searing pain around his wrists doesn’t seem as important as watching Sandalphon and Michael put their hands on Aziraphale though, and Crowley growls as they pull Aziraphale to his feet, holding him steady.

Crowley struggles at his restraints, desperately trying to pull himself up onto his feet, but he’s powerless to do anything but watch as Sandalphon and Michael roughly pull Aziraphale out of the room.

The door clangs shut behind them, and Gabriel turns to Crowley, a fox-like grin on his face.

* * *

Aziraphale struggles against Sandalphon and Michael’s grip, but it’s to no avail. They always were stronger than him, more athletic, better fighters. He’s weak compared to them, and there’s nothing he can do but let himself be dragged.

He doubles his efforts when they pull his coat off of him, leaving him feeling rather naked in just a waistcoat and shirt.

He watches with horror as his beloved coat is tossed carelessly onto the dirty floor. He’d picked out that old coat carefully, choosing the one that was most comfortable and had the best feeling under his fingers, and it’d been the most worn-in and comfortable coat that he’d owned. He pulls at their grip, damned if they’re going to treat his clothing so badly without a fight, but it’s to no avail. Michael’s fingers press so firmly into his skin that he thinks they might leave a mark, dragging him out towards another room.

He protests as he’s pulled into a cell similar to the one before, letting out a yelp as Michael forces his arms upwards and cuffs him in much the same way Crowley was cuffed before. His arms are stretched painfully towards the ceiling, feeling very much like they might be pulled out of his sockets. His wrists cry out in pain as they twist in the cuffs – iron, he notes, rather than silver, and thinks rather guilty back to the way those silver cuffs were scorching Crowley’s skin – and he’s left floundering, hanging from the ceiling. There isn’t enough room from the ceiling to the floor for him to stand, and he finds himself kneeling, arms stretched, his entire body aching.

_Well. This isn’t ideal, _he thinks to himself, but grits his teeth, waiting for whatever came next. He wants to scream and yell, and make threats, because wherever he is, he’s away from Crowley, and he does not like that thought.

But he’s not going to give Gabriel that satisfaction. Gabriel had taken so much from Aziraphale over the years, and he was not going to give him more by screaming.

Minutes pass, which turn into an hour, which turn into two. The more that Aziraphale is left to hang there, the more worried he gets. He doesn’t want to think about Crowley in the other room at the mercy of Gabriel. He doesn’t want to think about what Gabriel might come in soon and do to _him. _Everything is looking rather bleak indeed.

A full three hours pass and the door clangs open, and Aziraphale, despite his best efforts, jumps out of his skin.

Gabriel enters, that nasty smile of his on his face as he enters the room.

“Aziraphale,” he says, almost pleasantly, as if he’s just greeting him on the street. “How nice of you stop by.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“Oh, don’t make this boring,” Gabriel says, and his face turns into something of a pout. “It really isn’t fun when you don’t play along.”

Aziraphale lifts his chin, looking down his nose at Gabriel. “Where’s Crowley?” he asks, his voice level. “What have you done with him?”

“Crowley’s a little tied up at the moment,” Gabriel says, “but I can assure you, he’s fine. For the moment.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Aziraphale, please, have I ever told you a lie?”

_Yes, _Aziraphale thinks. _Constantly._

He keeps his lips pressed together, glaring up at Gabriel. He forces himself to keep eye-contact, even though Gabriel’s cold and hard gaze makes Aziraphale’s limbs shake a little.

Gabriel narrows his eyes. “I really never have seen anything like it,” he comments, “a human, so ready to defend an unforgivable monster.”

“He’s not a monster,” Aziraphale says automatically.

“Aziraphale. _Aziraphale,”_ Gabriel says, “you’ve seen what they can do. They could kill you with their little finger and leave nothing left but bones. They feast on humans and show no mercy. They could kill you in an instant just to feed their depraved desires. Why do you defend such reprehensible creatures?”

“They didn’t ask to be this way,” Aziraphale says. “Everything is a choice. They can choose not to hurt humans. They can choose how they make their way in the world, just like you and me.”

“Is this what your little pet vampire has been telling you?”

“No.” Aziraphale grits his teeth.

“You know he’s lying, of course,” Gabriel says.

Aziraphale frowns, his eyes flickering away from him.

Gabriel’s eyes light up, widening. “You don’t,” he says, sounding amazed. “Aziraphale, you can’t believe this creature actually wants _you.”_

The comment stings. Aziraphale knows Crowley, knows the goodness in him, knows the kindness, but it makes him wonder, why _would _Crowley want him?

Now that he’s looked away, he can’t look back. Gabriel’s eyes are too cold and unforgiving.

“He does want me,” Aziraphale mumbles. “I know he does.”

Gabriel bends his legs so that his face is eye-height with Aziraphale, his hands touching Aziraphale’s chin and forcing him to face Gabriel. He can’t look away now.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, his voice full of pity. “He’s tricked you. This is what his kind does. They get into your head and make you believe all kinds of things just so you won’t run away when they turn you into their prey.”

“It’s not true,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley wouldn’t do that.”

“You say that because that’s what he’s made you believe. Do you really think he wouldn’t turn around and take advantage of you the moment he gets a little hungry?”

He tilts Aziraphale’s head to the side, looking at the faint red marks on his neck from where Crowley’s teeth have pierced the skin.

“See?” he says, “look at what you’ve let him do. He’s made you believe that he wants you so that you’ll stick around. He doesn’t love you, Aziraphale. You’re a _meal ticket_.”

Gabriel jerks his hand away and leaves Aziraphale floundering in the air, letting out a gasp as he falls forward. 

Gabriel turns, and Aziraphale is left facing his back.

“You’ve let yourself be duped by him. You always were weak-willed,” he says, and then turns back to face Aziraphale. “But we can _help _you, Aziraphale. We can fix what went wrong, we can give you a home, and we can protect you. We were your family. We only ever wanted to protect you, Aziraphale, can’t you understand that? We loved you.”

There’s a pause and Gabriel’s words hang heavily in the air.

Aziraphale frowns. “No, you didn’t,” he says, quietly.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“You didn’t want to protect me,” Aziraphale says, louder this time, his voice firm. “You never wanted to protect me. You just wanted to _control _me. To make me act like you. You never loved me.”

“And you think he does? You think that creature has the capacity to love you?” Gabriel says, his voice just inches away from a snarl.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and as he says it, he realises just how much he believes it’s true. “_Yes, he does. _Crowley is good and kind and gentle, and he loves me and protects me and he treats me far better than you ever have.”

“You’re delusional,” Gabriel scoffs.

“If you think I’d ever come back to you willingly, then you’re the one who is delusional,” Aziraphale says.

“He will _ruin_ you,” Gabriel growls, surging forward until he’s practically nose to nose with Aziraphale, spraying spit as he talks. “He can’t hide his true nature. He’ll make you believe that you love him and then he’ll take _everything _from you. He will destroy you. He will drain you dry and leave you in an alleyway for the rats to find.”

Aziraphale frowns, rebuttals springing up on his tongue, but his mind catches on one particular thing that Gabriel had said.

_Drain you dry._

Realisation hits him like a cold bucket of water had been dumped over his head. His mouth drops open.

“It was you,” Aziraphale says, his voice hollow. “You’re the one responsible for all of those deaths. All those people. Innocent people. You _killed _them.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Gabriel says, “vampires killed them.”

“Vampires under your command, using whatever you had to take over Crowley’s mind,” Aziraphale says, horrified. “You made them do it.”

“They were all too happy to do it. It’s in their nature. They can’t help it,” Gabriel says.

Aziraphale thinks of Crowley, thinks of the arrangement he’d had with the hospital, thinks of the way that Crowley kept himself under control.

“Yes, they can,” he says.

Gabriel scoffs again. “You’re a fool if you believe that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t listen, shrinking as far away from Gabriel as his restraints will let him. “You did this. _Why?”_

“I had to show what was truly in those creatures’ hearts. You had to see what they were capable of. I thought that if you could see what those monsters could do, on your own doorstep, then maybe you’d see sense and come back to where you belong.”

Blood drains from Aziraphale’s face. “All of this death, because of me? Because you don’t like it when you don’t have a special toy to play with?”

“I had to make you see.”

“How many more innocent people have you killed?” Aziraphale demands. “How many more in the name of experiments? How many more just so that you could feel like you had some power?”

“Aziraphale—”

“I trusted you,” Aziraphale howls, tears prickling in his eyes. “For _years, _I trusted you. You made me believe we were doing good. You made me believe that we were protecting people. How many more were you hurting under my nose? Was everything a lie, even back then?”

Gabriel frowns. “I cared about you Aziraphale. I still do. I gave you a bed to sleep in when you had no one. I gave you food to eat when you didn’t have any. I raised you when no one else would. I gave you a life that you wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“You gave me a _lie,” _Aziraphale protests.

“I did what I had to keep you safe,” Gabriel says, “and now I’m doing the same thing.”

“Safe?” Aziraphale says, hysterically. “You’ve got me locked in handcuffs. If you cared about me at all, you’d let me go.”

“I’m trying to show you what _their _world is really like! I’m trying to show you what they’ll do - what your precious boyfriend would do, if he had half a chance. You’re a danger to yourself until you can accept that this is what’s good for you. Until you return to us.”

“_Never,” _Aziraphale says. “I will _never _return to you.”

“Then I’ll just leave you to _rot_,” Gabriel spits.

He sweeps out of the door, slamming it shut behind him. Aziraphale hears the bolt slide shut, leaving him shut up and alone, cold and aching in the dark cell, with no sounds but his own tears.


	13. Chapter 13

Sandalphon and Michael had spared no time manhandling Crowley out of his handcuffs, pressing a silver cross to his chest so that he couldn’t move, and leading him over towards a chair, the arms of which had more silver cuffs built into them. They’d wrestled him down into the chair and cuffed him in.

The silver had a horrible effect on his body. Not only did it burn – scorching his skin like hot lava, but it froze whatever limb it was touching, keeping him steady. It was like he’d been pulled out of his own body, his brain working, but his limbs not. 

It was a sensation like one that he hadn’t had since he was human, and it was the morning after he’d drunk a lot the night before. It left him dizzy and nauseated, the whole world spinning. If vampires could vomit, he might well have. 

“Where is he?” he says, the entire time they’re strapping him in. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

“He’s just fine,” Michael says, “Gabriel’s just having a little word with him.”

“Wanker,” Crowley spits. “If he hurts him, I’ll destroy him.”

Michael smiles, lifting Crowley’s chin so his eyes are in line with their face. “Dear me, you’re not really in very much of a position to do that, are you?”

Crowley snarls, baring his teeth, but Michael whips their hand out of the way before Crowley can bite her. Their eyes twinkle, grinning as she sweeps out of his reach.

“You better not be hurting him,” Crowley says. “Wherever he is, he better be alive and well, or I will bring this whole building down on top of you.”

“How do you suppose you’ll do that?” Michael says, still smiling. “You’re bound by silver. You can’t move.”

They’ve got a point, so Crowley settles for snarling at her, spraying spittle their way. As soon as he finds a way out of these chains, this wanker is the first that has to go.

“Now, just sit tight,” they say. “Aziraphale is going to be just fine as long as you cooperate.”

Crowley wants to lash out some more, but Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen, and he doesn’t like to think about what they might be doing to him in another room. If they’re hurting him, Crowley will find a way out of these chains and raise hell until the entire building is shed with vampire slayer blood.

“Good dog,” Michael says approvingly, and it takes all of Crowley’s strength not to spit at them. “Now, if you’ll just wait here, there’s a good boy. We’re going to need you as a little insurance...”

* * *

Aziraphale waits in his cell, arms aching from spending so long being stretched out of their sockets. He can’t stop his brain from making calculations: _how long can I stay like this? How long can I manage to keep himself up? How long before my body just gives way?_

He tries to push it to the back of his mind, tries not to think about it, but his brain keeps going, asking and calculating and worrying. What Gabriel had said had been final, and unless Aziraphale can find a way out of his restraints, it looks like he might not be escaping anytime soon.

He hadn’t been expecting Gabriel to come back so soon, not after what he’d said about leaving Aziraphale to rot, so when the bolt screeches across the metal and the door slams open again, Aziraphale jolts at the sudden noise.

Gabriel sweeps in, arms folded, says nothing, just stares at Aziraphale.

“What do you want?” Aziraphale says, slightly out of breath from keeping himself held up. “I thought you were done with me.”

“Not quite yet,” Gabriel says.

“Well, give it up. I told you before, I’m not going to help you. No matter what you do.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain you will,” Gabriel says, a twinkle in his eye. “I think you just need a little... motivation. Bring him in!”

Aziraphale watches, mouth open, as Sandalphon and Michael drag in a very beaten and bruised Crowley, bound in silver chains, his eyes barely open as they toss him into the cell, weak and loose-limbed. He slumps onto the floor like a sack of potatoes, all the strength sapped out of him.

“What have you done to him?” Aziraphale hisses, fury sparking in his limbs.

He struggles against the handcuffs, but they hold steady.

“Just giving you a little bit of insurance,” Gabriel says, that nasty grin of his almost ear to ear.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls over Gabriel’s shoulder. “_Crowley.”_

“‘Ziraphale...” comes a weak mumble from past Crowley’s lips. He doesn’t open his eyes, barely moves his head. The life has been sucked out of him, all of his strength gone. “Aziraphale...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, tears pricking his eyes. “Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

“Not... your fault.”

“Yes, your fault,” Gabriel snarls. “You could have given him a quick death. You could have got him out of this.”

“Don’t listen,” Crowley says, his voice ragged.

“Well, Aziraphale?” Gabriel says, “changed your mind at all?” 

“_Never,” _Aziraphale says. “If you think hurting the one thing that I treasure more than anything is going to make me warm up to you, then you’re madder than I thought.”

It’s weak and barely there, but Aziraphale thinks he catches a slight smile on Crowley’s lips. 

“Perhaps I didn’t make things clear enough,” Gabriel says, grabbing hold of Crowley’s collar, swiftly pulling a stake from his pocket and pressing it against Crowley’s throat. “Return to us, or I’ll kill him.”

Aziraphale’s heart dips, the sight of Crowley, his perfect, indestructible Crowley, inches away from death.

“Don’t listen!” Crowley mumbles from the floor. “Gonna kill me anyway.”

“Quiet!” Gabriel barks, slamming Crowley’s head against the stone floor. “Why don’t dogs ever know their place?” 

“Don’t touch him,” Aziraphale howls, his throat hurting from the scream. He lurches forward, but the restraints hold him back. “Don’t you dare!”

“You can save him. All you’ve gotta do is say you’ll return to us. Then Crowley dear will be safe and sound, and we’ll all get what we want.”

“Don’t listen,” Crowley implores from the floor. “Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen.”

But Gabriel juts Crowley’s head against the floor, pressing his face against the stones to muffle his voice. “I don’t think you want to be speaking right now, you little monster.” 

“Don’t touch him!” Aziraphale begs, “get away from him. Don’t hurt him. _Please._”

Gabriel wields the stake, pressing the tip of it to Crowley’s throat. “All you’ve gotta do is say you’ll join us. Come back to us and we’ll stop hurting your precious Crowley.”

“I don’t believe you!” Aziraphale shrieks, flailing uselessly at his handcuffs. “I don’t believe you!”

“Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,” Gabriel says, “all that it matters is that I’ve got your darling Crowley right here, and there’s nothing that you can do to stop me hurting him unless you agree to join me.”

Aziraphale lunges forward, pulling desperately at the cuffs, trying to get as close as possible.

“Oh, do stop embarrassing yourself, Aziraphale. There’s no way out of those cuffs, not without breaking something. Just give it up. Say you’ll return to us. Then we’ll let him go.”

Aziraphale looks from Gabriel, to his cuffs, and then back again.

“Come on, Aziraphale. Make the right choice,” Gabriel taunts.

Aziraphale frowns, takes a breath, and then twists his hands in one fast motion. There’s one horribly loud _crack, _and pain explodes through his wrists, so bad he almost sees stars, but it gives him just enough room to pull his hands free from the cuffs and launch himself over to Gabriel.

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Of. Him,” Aziraphale spits, lunging for the stake and pulling it away from Crowley’s body.

For a moment, Gabriel looks stunned, and it’s just enough time for Aziraphale to duck and roll around Gabriel, pushing him out of the way and throwing himself over Crowley, arms stretching out to cover him from Gabriel.

His entire body is geared up for a fight, adrenaline coursing through his limbs. He can’t beat Gabriel in a fight. He’s had years and years’ worth of taunts and insults to know he’s not as good of a fighter as Gabriel is.

But Crowley’s life is on the line, and Aziraphale would protect him with everything that he had, even if it meant breathing his last breath.

But Gabriel doesn’t move towards Aziraphale or Crowley. Instead, he looks at them thoughtfully.

“Well, well, well, Aziraphale,” he says. “Clearly I’ve underestimated you. You’ve got more guts than I thought.”

He steps out towards the door. “I suppose if the two of you love each other so much, you can stay here and rot together.”

With that, Gabriel sweeps out of the room, slamming the door shut with a clang, sliding the bolt across.

Aziraphale lets out a very long breath, his heart pounding in his throat.

“Crowley!” he says, scrabbling over to where Crowley is lying helplessly on the floor. “Crowley, my love, what have they done to you?”

He pulls away all of the silver that had been wrapped around Crowley’s body, freeing the vampire from the paralyzing and burning metal. Crowley reaches weakly for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale pulls him into his arms, his face burying into Crowley’s chest, shoulders shaking as tears leak from his eyes.

“Crowley.” His voice is muffled, pressed into Crowley’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s hair, stroking through his blonde curls. The touch of him is almost too much after spending hours being beaten and berated, aching to have Crowley in his arms.

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley says. He still sounds ragged after everything he’s been through, but his voice is just a little stronger, as are his limbs, having been rid of the silver. “This was all Gabriel’s doing.”

“It’s my fault he did this to you,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s bare chest, his eyes squeezed shut. “And those killings. That was him too. It’s all because of _me.”_

Crowley shushes him gently, his fingers threading through Aziraphale’s hair. “S’not. It’s all him, angel, it’s all him. You can’t blame yourself for the things he does.”

Aziraphale wants to protest, but he finds himself too exhausted. For a moment, he just allows himself to be held, Crowley’s arms around him like a protective shroud. 

Then Crowley pulls back. “Christ, angel, what have you done to yourself?”

Aziraphale’s about to ask him what he means, but then he sees Crowley looking down at his wrist, bent at a weird angle. Pain shoots through it again, and he winces, having forgotten all about it in his rush to get to Crowley.

“It’s fine,” he says through gritted teeth, even though it feels like it’s on fire. “I had to get out of the cuffs to get to you. Gabriel was going to kill you.”

Crowley frowns. “You should have let him. Found a way to save yourself. Got yourself out of here.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, firmly. “Not without you. I got you into this, I’m going to get you out. It’s both of us together, or neither of us.”

Crowley looks at him so intently, almost like he’s marvelling him. He presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, slinking an arm around his back to hold him steady.

“Must hurt.”

“It’s not too bad,” Aziraphale lies. “I just had to get to you.”

Crowley sighs. “You are a ridiculous man,” he says, and then kisses Aziraphale so softly it feels like he might melt. He _does _melt a bit, falling into Crowley’s embrace, kissing him gently until it feels like his heart’s no longer breaking.

“Let me do something about it,” Crowley whispers.

He pulls back for a moment, taking Aziraphale’s good arm in his. Aziraphale frowns for a moment, confused, and then watches in horror as Crowley rips a strip of material from Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes, “that was a perfectly good shirt!” 

Crowley gives him a sideways look as if to repeat his _ridiculous man_ comment, wrapping the material around Aziraphale’s wrist, giving it just a little bit of support. His eyes shine, and Aziraphale wonders for a moment what’s going on in Crowley’s brain, but then Crowley pulls Aziraphale into his arms, burying his nose into Aziraphale’s hair.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he mumbles, “I was so worried.”

“_You _were worried?” Aziraphale huffs out a laugh. “You’re practically black and blue.”

“They took you away. They could have been doing anything to you. I thought they were going to kill you,” Crowley says.

“I think they need me alive for something,” Aziraphale says, grimly. “Or else they’d have got fed up and got rid of me by now.”

“He said something about needing you to help perfect the mind control serum,” Crowley says. “He said you were the one with the brains for it.”

“Well, at least he thinks I’m good for something,” Aziraphale says, bitterly. “Though if he thinks I’m going to help make him any more of that dreadful stuff, he’s got another thing coming. If I weren’t in this cell, I’d smash every bottle.”

Crowley grins.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asks.

“Just... you,” Crowley says. “Being all self-righteous and good.”

Aziraphale huffs a sigh, bending his head and pressing it gently against Crowley’s chest, but he gives a small little smile anyway. His good hand finds one of Crowley’s, threading their fingers together and pressing it against his chest. Crowley sighs, pulling Aziraphale close and threading his fingers through his hair.

“What are we going to do?” Aziraphale says with a frown. “Either they’re going to figure out a way of getting us to do what they want, or they’re going to just leave us here to die.”

“Leave _you _here to die, maybe,” Crowley says, his voice rough. “I’m fairly sure they mean for me to kill you and then either become one of their new experiments or just wither away on my own. And I’d sooner bite off my own arm than hurt you.”

“We’ve got to figure a way out,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t want to accept – I _won’t _accept – that this is the last of us.” 

“Unless you managed to swipe Gabriel’s keys, then I’m not seeing a way out, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flutter towards the door. “Wait,” he says, “the door’s not silver.”

“What?”

Aziraphale lifts himself up off the floor and traces the door with his fingers. “It’s not silver. It’s iron.”

“Why does that make a difference?”

“It won’t keep you in,” Aziraphale says, excitement bubbling up in his voice. “With your strength, you could pull it open.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “Not in this state. I haven’t drunk in ages. I can barely lift my own arms, see—”

He flops his arms about a bit and Aziraphale gives a snort.

“You’ve got a food source, haven’t you?” he says.

Crowley freezes, his smile turning into a frown. “Aziraphale, no. You’ve been through enough today. I’m not sure you can take it.”

“I _can.”_

_“_I’m not sure I can keep myself in control. It’s already hard enough keeping myself from biting you now, angel, I’m not sure I could stop myself once I got the taste of blood.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You’ve said that every time we’ve done this, and you’ve never had a problem before.”

“I’d never been beaten up by a bunch of slayer wankers before, but there’s a first for everything.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, pleadingly. “We have to try something. We can’t just let them win. Besides, even if you did take too much, at least you’d have a chance—”

“No,” Crowley interrupts swiftly, before Aziraphale can finish his sentence. “You said it was both of us or neither of us, angel, and I’m not risking your life.”

“We have to try.”

“What would we even do once we got out? We have no plan. Gabriel and his minions could be right around the corner waiting for us,” Crowley says.

“You can turn invisible, right? We could sneak our way out.”

“I _can, _but what about you? I’m not leaving you stranded at the mercy of Gabriel,” he says.

“No, but maybe you could make it to the other cells. Set the vampires free. Gabriel’s strong, but he’s not strong enough to take down that many of them. If we’re quick enough, we could cause big enough of a scene that we’d have enough of a distraction,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley makes a noise of protest, but Aziraphale can see the slight spark in his eye, the cogs turning in the back of his head.

“It’d be dangerous,” Crowley says, “and we still have no way of knowing where Gabriel and his men are. He could be waiting for us right outside.”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “If you drank from me, would you be stronger than you are now?”

“Incredibly so.”

“And we know more now, about the serum and what Gabriel’s up to. You’d have a better chance besting him, especially if you can turn invisible.”

Crowley thinks for a moment. “Maybe,” he says, and then he gives a growl, “and I can’t say that the idea of ripping Gabriel into tiny pieces isn’t especially _appealing_ right now... but what if he manages to catch me again, if he manages to use silver? I’ll be down, and you can bet that they won’t take any chances by not killing me this time. I won’t be able to protect you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but it’s almost fond. “How many times must I tell you that you don’t need to worry about me?”

Crowley huffs a laugh, tucking a finger under Aziraphale’s chin. “I’ll always worry about you, angel, I don’t think there’s anything that will change that.”

Aziraphale curls his hand around Crowley’s. “I know it’s dangerous. But we have to at least try. We can’t just give in to them.”

Crowley sighs, bending his head to press against Aziraphale’s. “You’re right. But I don’t like this.”

“I know, darling. Me neither. I’d give anything to be back in my bookshop right now.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to get us there, angel. I promise.”

Aziraphale gives a sigh and snuggles close. Despite everything, he feels warm and safe, shrouded in Crowley’s arms. Crowley’s chin presses on top of Aziraphale’s head, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel surrounded by love. How could he ever believe Gabriel, when Crowley holds him like this? 

“If we don’t make it out,” Aziraphale says, “I – I want you to know that I love you. So much. With everything that I’ve got.”

Crowley’s arms tighten around Aziraphale. “Love you too. More than anything.”

Aziraphale’s heart flutters, his stomach flipping pleasantly. “Now,” he says coyly, curling up against Crowley’s chest. “Are we doing this?”

Crowley grins, darting forward and shifting so that Aziraphale is on his back, supported by Crowley’s arm under him, his head just lifted off the floor as Crowley’s lips descend onto his.

Crowley kisses him like a man crawling in the desert, desperate for water. He kisses like a fire burning too brightly to be extinguished. He kisses fiercely, and when he does, it makes Aziraphale feel helpless in the most delightful and wonderful way possible.

Crowley’s tongue darts down Aziraphale’s neck and he sucks on the pulse point, Aziraphale flushing beneath him, arching his back. Even here, on the dingy floor of a cold cell, Crowley has a way of making Aziraphale feel utterly incredible, his whole body set alight with desire and longing. Crowley’s teeth scrape across Aziraphale’s neck and he lets out a shudder, goose pimples prickling across his skin.

Aziraphale flushes red, breathless and wanting as he relaxes in Crowley’s grip. After everything they’ve been through today, it feels so good to be right here, loose and boneless in Crowley’s arms.

And when Crowley’s teeth pierce his skin, he lets out a gasp, letting the world fall gently into a soft glow around him.

* * *

Crowley had forgotten what he was like to have Aziraphale in his arms like this, warm and soft, and gasping his name, begging for more. Even with his previous reservations, he can’t stop himself from giving a pleased groan as he laps at Aziraphale’s neck, quenching that ever-present fire in his throat.

After everything Gabriel and his men had put him through, feeling the strength reignite in his bones is some kind of ecstasy, and he has to stop himself from crying out with the feeling of it. He feels bruises on his arms heal, the scorching from the silver on his wrists and his face smoothing over, his body taking a new breath. 

“Keep going,” Aziraphale whispers underneath him, his good hand drifting through Crowley’s hair, his fingers pulling at red curls. “Don’t stop.”

Crowley doesn’t need to be told and keeps drinking in Aziraphale, that sweet taste unlike anything else he’s tasted before filling him up. Aziraphale arches his back, lets out a moan and holds onto Crowley hard, and mewls in such a way that it ignites a possessive side to Crowley. He pulls Aziraphale closer, curls his arms around him and holds him tight as he drinks.

As he feels his strength return, so does he feel that white-hot rage, that fire beneath his fingertips. Aziraphale had been hurt by Gabriel. Gabriel had thought he could control him. Gabriel doesn’t know what’s coming.

For the first time since he was dragged into this godforsaken building, Crowley feels strong. He feels powerful. He feels ready to tear this house down brick by brick and bring Gabriel down along with it.

He pulls away from Aziraphale, who lets out a little whine at the loss of contact.

“Sorry, love,” Crowley whispers, gently wiping away the blood from Aziraphale’s neck. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale mumbles, but Crowley can see the way his eyes are sliding out of focus.

Crowley’s fingers trace Aziraphale’s face. “Wish I had a way to clean you up properly.”

“M’fine.”

Crowley stares down at Aziraphale, teeth worrying against his lip. He may have got his strength back, but Aziraphale was looking out of it, as he always does after Crowley has taken. How are they supposed to get out of here when Aziraphale can barely stand?

“Hey, Aziraphale, can you look at me?” Crowley asks, softly, sitting Aziraphale up and resting his back against the wall. 

Aziraphale does, but his eyes don’t focus, and his head keeps drooping.

“I’m going to need you to keep your eyes open, love,” Crowley says.

“I am,” Aziraphale says stubbornly, but his head keeps rolling to the side.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, desperately, “how am I supposed to get you out of here when you can’t even look at me?”

“Leave me behind,” Aziraphale mumbles. “Make the distraction. Come back for me.”

“It’s too dangerous. What if Gabriel comes back? I can’t leave you here alone.”

“Only way,” Aziraphale says, his voice slurred.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Crowley says, his voice faltering. “Not alone.”

“I’ll be fine.” Aziraphale still can’t really open his eyes, his head falling back against the wall. “Just. Be quick.”

Seeing no other option, Crowley dropped to his knees, pressing a kiss against Aziraphale’s forehead.

“I will, I promise,” he vows, his fingers tracing Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’ll be back, I swear to you. I won’t leave you.”

Aziraphale opens his eyes just barely. “I love you,” he says, quietly.

Crowley surges forward, kissing Aziraphale. “I love you more than anything. I’ll be back soon. I’ll give you that life I promised.”

Then Crowley pulls himself to his feet, puts his hands on the door and rips it away as if it was nothing, speeding off into the night, nothing but a blur.

* * *

He’d heard a noise in one of the cells below, and Gabriel wasn’t one to let little noises go unchecked. He had hundreds of filthy vampires locked under his home, he couldn’t afford any little mistakes.

He makes his way downstairs, marching through the long corridor of cells. Nothing seems amiss so far, most of their prisoners are safely locked in their cells, growling and snarling at Gabriel as he walks by. Some even shout abuse. It’s almost music to his ears, knowing that these creatures are in their rightful place.

He turns a corner and then his stomach drops as he realises in which cell there’s been a disturbance. He hurries to the end of the corridor and rounds a corner, and sure enough, there it is, the one cell they kept for humans, with the door ripped off its hinges.

_Stupid. They’d left the goddamn vampire in the human cell._

Gabriel presses a button near him to speak on the intercom.

“Code red, we’ve got a breakout. Everyone on high alert. Be on the lookout for the vampire Crowley. Find him in the next hour or face my extreme displeasure.”

He takes his hand off the intercom and is about to turn away when he hears a whimper.

The cell’s not empty.

Gabriel turns back, looks inside.

“Help me,” a voice whimpers from the floor.

It’s Aziraphale, looking very weak and helpless indeed.

“You were right,” he whispers, “I should have listened to you. He did only want me for a meal ticket.”

And then Aziraphale bursts into tears.


	14. Chapter 14

Crowley leaves the cell, turning invisible in an instant and melting into the shadows. He doesn’t want to leave Aziraphale alone, and there’s a part of him screaming not to leave him, to go back and carry him out of there. If they die, they’re much better off dying together.

But Aziraphale was right, before. They have a much better chance if Crowley can sneak out and make some noise. If he’s fast enough, maybe he can make enough trouble that he can get Aziraphale without them even noticing.

Feeling his full strength come back to him is invigorating. When his physical strength had returned, so had his confidence, and Crowley no longer feels beaten by Gabriel. He feels like he could take on anything. He’s ready for a fight, and Gabriel better beware, because after everything he’s put the love of his life through, Crowley’s ready to take him on and tear him to pieces.

Crowley walks briskly, but carefully. He may be invisible, but if he gives himself away then his advantage will be lost. If he can keep as quiet as possible, Gabriel and his minions will have no chance against him.

He drifts quietly through the corridor, past rows and rows and cells. Some of the occupants act up as he passes by, slamming their hands against the doors and screaming, sensing Crowley’s presence, even though they couldn’t see him. Crowley grows wary. If they make too much of a fuss, Gabriel will be alerted and then his advantage would be lost. He has to tread carefully.

He moves slowly through the corridor, down through another hallway. This one makes Crowley shudder; the people inside the cells make such awful noises. Some of them screech and scream. Others just thrash and writhe, and every so often, Crowley passes one just making soft, tear-filled pleas, begging to be let go.

Crowley grinds his teeth together. _And Gabriel thinks we’re the monsters, _he thinks momentarily to himself.

He didn’t need another reason to put Gabriel in the ground, but as this hellish night goes on, he’s finding more and more reasons.

* * *

What a pathetic sight.

Aziraphale, crumpled up in his cell, quivering and begging for help. The side of his neck has been bitten into, and a trail of blood dribbles down his throat.

Gabriel wrinkles his nose. _Disgusting._

What kind of a human allowed themselves to be so taken with something as unforgivable as those creatures? He’d seen the way Aziraphale had looked at Crowley, eyes all wide and dewy, face flushed, looking a little like a cartoon puppy. It made Gabriel feel sick to the stomach.

Now, he’s looking down at Aziraphale, pale and shaking, tearstained and weak. He’d always been soft, far too easily trusting and far too easy to manipulate.

Gabriel bent down, assessing the damage. Looks like mild blood loss, and a small bite to the neck. Rather a pity that vampire hadn’t decided to finish him off for good.

But maybe he could use this to his advantage.

“What have I been telling you?” Gabriel says, putting a finger under Aziraphale’s chin and lifting his head to look at the bite mark.

“I know,” Aziraphale whimpers, sorrowfully. “You were right all along.”

“I _told _you what they were truly like. I _told _you what he’d do if he had even had half a chance,” Gabriel says. “You never listen. You’re weak. What are you?”

“I’m weak,” Aziraphale repeats, tears dribbling down his cheeks.

“That’s right. Lucky for you, Aziraphale, I forgive. Come home, Aziraphale. Come home to your family. The only people who truly love you,” Gabriel says. “We’ll protect you.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes slide to meet Gabriel’s, his hands still quivering. “Okay,” he says, his voice soft. “I’ll come back.”

“That’s the ticket. Now, come up to the kitchen with me. We’ll get you cleaned up, get some food into you. Then you’ll have your old bed back. We’ve got the whole headquarters on full alert for that missing vampire. He’ll be dead before the sun rises,” Gabriel says.

Aziraphale looks pale. “Okay,” he says.

“Come along. Everything’s going to be okay now.”

“Okay.”

His voice still sounds meek, but Aziraphale manages to pull himself up off the floor, limbs quivering. As he walks, he stares at the floor, his fingers curling around his wrist.

Gabriel’s about to open his mouth to say something, but before he can say anything, a loud alarm starts to blare, and the entire basement is plunged into red flashing lights.

* * *

_“Code red, we’ve got a breakout. Everyone on high alert. Be on the lookout for the vampire Crowley. Find him in the next hour or face my extreme displeasure.”_

Gabriel’s voice trickles out of the intercom, and Crowley only just manages to stop himself from swearing loudly.

His escape had been discovered, which meant Gabriel had found Aziraphale too, which meant that _anything _could be happening to Aziraphale right now.

Crowley growls, turning back towards the door, ready to storm back out there and find wherever Aziraphale is, check to make sure he’s okay, and rip Gabriel’s throat out if he’s even thought about hurting him, but he stops himself.

If Crowley’s caught, they won’t take any more chances. They’ll kill him without mercy, and if he dies, Aziraphale will be left here with these people who treat him like dirt. 

His only choice – as much as he makes his heart clench – is to search for the keys to the cells, break all the vampires out and cause as much of a ruckus as he can possibly manage, enough to distract Gabriel and his men. It’s their only chance.

His heart pounding his throat, trying not to think about where Aziraphale might be and if he’s okay, Crowley darts down another corridor.

Gabriel hadn’t been keeping his keys on his person, Crowley would have noticed that. Most of the cells were opened with a bolt, anyway, forged of silver that Crowley couldn’t touch. Not ideal.

But with this many prisoners, this many people locked away, there had to be another system for opening the doors. It wouldn’t be efficient to open them separately each time they needed to bring a prisoner or two out. And if Crowley had learned anything about Gabriel, it was that the man liked to have back up plans upon back up plans. There had to be an automated system or an override, a way to open up all of these doors. He just had to find out where.

Crowley darts back down another side-corridor, following signs back out to the entrance of the basement when he spots one sign in big bold letters: CONTROL ROOM.

That has to be it.

Crowley sped towards the door. Locked, of course. But when he reaches out a finger to test it, he finds it’s made of iron, rather than silver. He presses his hands against the door and wrenches it off its hinges.

That’s when a very loud, very bright alarm begins to blare.

* * *

Someone’s trying to get into the control room without access.

Could be a rogue employee, but if Gabriel would put all of his money on it being that pesky little vampire. 

Aziraphale still looks weak and pale by his side, kneeling over and puffing as he walks, cheeks still tearstained.

God, how had Gabriel ever put up with this mess? The moment this annoying little intrusion was dealt with, he was going to put this man through so much training until there weren’t any weak spots left.

“Stay here,” Gabriel says, “it’s safe down here. I’ll come back to find you after all of this is over.”

“Wait!” Aziraphale wheezes. He holds his hand up as if to say something more, but can’t seem to catch his breath, bending over and putting his hands on his knees.

Lord have mercy, did this man think Gabriel had the patience to wait for more nonsense from him?

“You don’t know what he’s planning!” Aziraphale says, hastily. “He’s leading you right into his trap.”

Alright, so maybe this little twerp might not be so useless after all.

“What plan?” Gabriel says. “What trap?”

“He wanted to make you think that he’s messing with the control room, and then he was going to ambush you before you could make it through the door,” he says. “You’ve got to—” he stops to take another long breath— “find another way out.”

Hmm. That was going to be difficult. Most of the exits were routed through the control room and back into the upper floors of the house.

There has to be another way out.

Before Gabriel can come up with anything though, an even louder claxon begins to wail alongside the alarms, shrill and ear-defining.

Gabriel swears, loudly.

He hears shrieking first, and then a screech of metal sliding against metal, and then roars.

The prisoners are being set free.

* * *

Crowley bolts into the room, alarm wailing. He hasn’t got much time. That alarm will have alerted everyone in the building that someone is trying to get where they aren’t allowed to be, and soon enough he’ll have the whole of Gabriel’s little army down upon him.

Invisible or not, he’s going to be discovered.

The room is small, taken up mostly by a huge panel of buttons and switches, some of them beeping or flashing. There’s a set of monitors at the front, a grey, grainy image of each room, and the rows and rows of cells inside.

There has to be a switch, or a lever, or _something _that will open them up, but none of them are labelled.

_Fuck._

In a fervour, Crowley starts pressing them all. At first, nothing much happens. The screens flick on and off. They switch to different rooms, or just zoom in onto the empty hallways. So Crowley tries another set of switches. As far as he can tell they make no change, no matter how many times he flicks them.

He tries another. A temperature gauge appears on the screen. He presses a button. The loudspeakers in the corners of the room move.

_God fucking damn it._

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Gabriel had made the cell doors strictly user-operated, cutting out security problems. But that would mean any human could go down and set those prisoners free. He must have some security in place, but _where?_

He’d been gone too long. That alarm had been going on for too long. Aziraphale was out there somewhere, alone and suffering from blood loss and Gabriel had probably got to him already, had probably got his claws into him _already, _was probably doing something unspeakable while Crowley sits here being utterly _useless—_

Crowley let out a scream, slamming his hands down onto the module.

It cracks into two pieces.

Crowley freezes, staring down at the damage he’s done, and then staring at the screen. It goes fuzzy, and then flickers out.

And then a claxon joins the main alarm, and the halls are filled with a cacophony of shrieking, and then Crowley sees it from the window – the doors slowly opening, the prisoners flooding back into the hall.

* * *

“There’s another way out of here.”

Aziraphale’s voice is a tiny mumble, barely there, and Gabriel has to strain to hear him over the noise and the lights. 

“What would you know?” he says with a scoff.

“Knew all the ways out of the building. When I still lived here,” Aziraphale explains, his voice tight.

“How could you possibly know something about my house that I don’t know?”

“I knew everything.” Aziraphale stares down at his feet, his fingers twisting together. “In case I needed to get away quickly.”

“Right,” Gabriel says with a nod. “Well, if you think you know a way out, lead the way.”

Aziraphale nods, leading Gabriel out of the room and down several more corridors, twisting this way and that until he reaches the room Gabriel had held Crowley in, initially.

“Here? This doesn’t have any exits. I’d made sure of that,” Gabriel says.

“It does. Further in. You wouldn’t know unless you know.”

Aziraphale gestures into the room. Gabriel noses inside. It’s empty, completely dark, covered in shadow.

“Aziraphale, I don’t think—”

And then Aziraphale lays both his palms flat on Gabriel’s back and pushes him. Not expecting it, Gabriel stumbles through the open door, just in time to watch Aziraphale slam the door shut, sliding the bolt across with a screech of metal on metal.

Gabriel jumps up, slamming at the door.

“Aziraphale,” he says, “what the _fuck _do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, his voice much bolder than before, that weak, breathless voice completely gone. He stands up straight, and through the bars in the window, he can see Aziraphale’s eyes, cold and hard.

“Aziraphale, let me out this instant.”

“No,” says Aziraphale. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“You can’t keep me in here,” Gabriel says, “I’ve got—”

He pats his hands down his pockets. All empty. Stake gone. Silver gone. Keys gone.

Aziraphale wiggles his fingers on his left hand, revealing Gabriel’s iron cross. In his other hand, he’s holding a stake, the ring of keys looped over his little finger.

How... how had Aziraphale managed to sneak them away without him seeing?

“You’ve had free reign for far too long,” Aziraphale says. “It’s time someone took your toys away.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, trying to keep a note of panic out of his voice. “Let me out.”

“No,” Aziraphale says calmly.

“Let me out!” Gabriel slams himself against the door. “Let me out, you little shit! You can’t treat me like this. I gave you a home, and this is how you thank me? I looked after you when no one else would! I’m the reason you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. How are you going to cope in this world without me?”

“Just fine, I should think,” Aziraphale says.

“No—” Gabriel slams against the door again— “you can’t leave me in here.”

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, almost pleasantly, and then turns on his heel.

“Let me out! You can’t leave me! Aziraphale! Open this door!” Gabriel barks, but Aziraphale isn’t listening.

He puts his hands in his pockets, gives a last little wave, and then Gabriel is left to watch as Aziraphale disappears down the hallway.

Gabriel keeps yelling, slamming his hands against the door until they hurt, but no one comes to find him. He rifles through his pockets, but there’s nothing in them. Aziraphale had taken his phone too. There’s no one to call. The intercom is on the other side of the door. There’s no way out.

There _had _to be a way out.

He was Gabriel Hawthorne, the most notorious vampire slayer in the world. Creatures that went bump in the night feared his name. He did not bow to the monsters that hid in the shadows, and he would not die in this room. He would figure a way out, and then Aziraphale and his vampire friend would _pay._

Gabriel takes a few steps back from the door, gathering himself and getting his bearings. If he could assess what he had to work with in this room, he could figure a way out of it.

And that’s when, from the corner of his eye, he sees the shadowy figure.

He’s not alone in this room.

He catches a flash of teeth, and then sees the whites of an eye.

“_Gaaaaaabriel,”_ comes a hiss. “_I’m going to enjoy this._”


	15. Chapter 15

“_Gaaaaaabriel. I’m going to enjoy this.”_

The figure emerges from the dark, familiar. Small, dressed in a ragged suit, with trousers that rise at the ankle. Dark, matted hair. Fierce red eyes.

Beelzebub, former leader of a vampire clan, feared among humans and vampires alike until Gabriel had caught them and put them in a cage, forcing them to do his bidding.

Their hands are in their pockets, head tilted to the side as if appraising Gabriel very carefully. A grin passes across their face, showing off sharp, white teeth.

“Gabriel Hawthorne,” Beelzebub says, their voice rough. “Seems as if someone’s decided to put _you _in a cage for once.”

Gabriel wrinkles his nose and scoffs. “You don’t scare me, dog. I had you under my control once, I’ll have you again. I’ll put your right back where you belong.”

Beelzebub grins, and in a flash, Gabriel finds his back slammed against the wall, their hands pinning his wrists to the wall. They’ve risen onto their toes so that their teeth are inches away from Gabriel’s face.

“You don’t have any toys to play with anymore,” they say. “That’s the thing about men like you. Once you take away their toys, they aren’t so high and mighty anymore.”

Gabriel bends his head back against the wall, sliding against the brick. Those teeth are so very close. He can practically feel the venom dripping off of them.

“You don’t scare me,” Gabriel repeats, but he doesn’t sound as sure of himself this time.

Beelzebub grins. “See, the thing is,” they say, and they get close, teeth scraping against his ear. Gabriel flinches. “_I can hear your heartbeat.”_

Gabriel tries to inch away, but they hold him steady.

“It’s beating so fast,” Beelzebub says. “So very, very, fast. Are you sure you’re not scared, Gabriel? Are you sure?”

“Not at all,” he says. His voice gives him away. It wobbles, his breath catching as he tries to speak.

“That’s the thing about men like you,” they say. “You like to pretend you’re not scared of anything. You act as if you fear nothing, and then build entire castles and dungeons, just to keep out that one thing you fear so very much, you can’t sleep at night.”

They move down, teeth scraping against Gabriel’s jaw. “One bite is all it’d take, and you’d be like me.”

Gabriel freezes.

“Don’t—” he says before he can stop himself.

Beelzebub laughs.

“See,” they say, “there’s the fear. I can see it in your eyes. That one fear you can’t hide.”

Gabriel stays frozen, heart pounding. Beelzebub holds his arms hard against the wall. He can’t move. He is the prey, and his time is over.

“Please don’t,” he says.

Beelzebub tilts their head back, letting out a cackle. “Now this I’d like to see. Gabriel Hawthorne begging for his life.”

“Please,” he says. “Please, please. Don’t do this.”

In an instant, Beelzebub’s grin turns into a growl, their claws jutting out and digging into Gabriel’s wrists. “Now why would I do that?” they spit. “You tried to make me do your bidding. You put me in a cage. You took my free will away from me. Why should I want to do anything but take yours away from you?” 

Their breath tickles Gabriel’s ear, and he twists his head away. “What will you do when I’ve tainted your soul?” they hiss. “What will you do when you’re _unforgivable_?”

Gabriel’s hands begin to shake, his heart hammering against his chest. “Please,” is all he can say. “Please, please, don’t.”

“That’s the thing about men like you,” they say with a hiss. “In the end, you always end up begging for your life.”

And then they dart forward and clamp their teeth around Gabriel’s throat.

“There,” they say, as they pull back.

Gabriel drops to his knees, his entire body paralyzed as it hits the floor, his body set alight with fire.

Beezlebub looks down at him, with a smile. “Oh, don’t look so scared. I’m giving you what you wanted. An _eternity _of survival.”

Then they sweep away, wrenching the door free and disappearing down the corridor, leaving Gabriel to writhe on the floor, utterly alone.

* * *

Aziraphale hurries back through corridor after corridor, but the place is a maze, and not even his days of memorising map after map of Gabriel’s headquarters can help him now, not when the alarms are blaring, red lights flashing.

He still feels a little woozy – although not as woozy as he was pretending to be with Gabriel while he went digging through Gabriel’s pockets, pilfering anything that would render him able to put up a fight.

His head spins, just a bit, but at least he can move. His problem? The upper floors of the dungeons are teeming with vampires. _Angry _vampires, that have been locked away, tortured and tested on, vampires that no doubt would be extremely vicious to anyone they came across, no matter who they were.

How is he supposed to find Crowley amongst all of this? He could be _anywhere._

He supposes his best bet is to let Crowley find him, so he makes his way back to their shared cell, ducking inside and hiding behind the door.

All he can do is wait, and hope that in all of this madness, Crowley is okay, and hasn’t been caught up with any of Gabriel’s soldiers, or with any vampire, starved of blood and looking for a fight.

The alarms are almost too much for Aziraphale to bear. They seem to drill into his head, impossibly loud, like they’re pounding into his skull. He curls up, pressing his forehead against his knees and pressing his hands flat over his ears. 

And then he waits and waits.

And then—

“Aziraphale?” a voice bellows through the alarms. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale snaps his head up, and there’s Crowley, barrelling through the corridors towards him. Aziraphale jumps to his feet, throwing himself into his arms.

“Aziraphale, thank _god,_” Crowley says, burying his nose into Aziraphale’s hair. “I was so worried. I thought Gabriel had come to find you.”

“He did,” Aziraphale says, grimly. “I took care of it.”

Crowley pulls back, his hands cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks, tilting his chin back, eyes roaming over Aziraphale’s face.

“I’m not hurt, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, placing a hand gently over one of Crowley’s. “He didn’t try anything. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, angel, but it’s madness up there. I don’t know if we can make it out unscathed.”

“Did you set them all free?”

Crowley grins. “Every single one.” But then his face falters. “But it’s a bloodbath. I don’t know if I can get you out of here safely.”

Aziraphale feels like laughing, despite everything. There was his Crowley, thinking about his safety above everything else. He gives himself a moment, pressing his face into Crowley’s chest and taking a breath. Crowley’s arms wrap around him immediately, holding him tight against him.

“We’ll just have to wait until it calms down a bit,” Aziraphale says.

“Not sure it will,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can see the worry going on behind his brain. “It’s _insane. _There’s no way this ends without the whole house being burned down.”

“Could we not just try and make a run for it?” Aziraphale suggests. “If we’re quick enough, we’ll just look like part of the riot.”

“I might be able to, but you won’t. You smell human, Aziraphale, and they’ve gone feral on the scent of it. They’d tear you apart.”

“What other choice do we have?” Aziraphale says. His fingers thread through Crowley’s. “We knew it was get out of here or die trying.”

“I’d really, really like to avoid the dying part, angel. Not when we’re _this _close,” Crowley says, his face softening, and Aziraphale knows he’s imagining it – their freedom. Their new life tucked away in the bookshop together, just the two of them, no one to bother them. No more Gabriel to bother them. 

A whole new life, a whole new future.

Aziraphale gathers himself into Crowley’s arms and squeezes tight. The pain in his wrist is still electric, the ache in his bones suddenly unbearable, the depth of his exhaustion just finally settling over his body.

“I want to go home,” he whispers into Crowley’s ear.

Crowley’s hands thread through Aziraphale’s hair, as gentle and as tender as ever.

“I know, angel,” he says. “I’m going to do everything in my power to get you there.”

“How?”

Aziraphale feels Crowley shift under his touch. “We’ll have to wait,” he says after a pause. “Keep out of the way until there’s the moment of calm, and then get out of here as fast as we can.”

“I don’t want to spend another minute without you,” Aziraphale says, trembling slightly as he presses his face into Crowley’s shoulder.

“Nor I, you, angel. C’mon. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Crowley effortlessly pulls Aziraphale into his arms, his arm hooking under his legs to lift him into the air. Aziraphale lets himself snuggle into Crowley’s chest, his ear resting over Crowley’s heartbeat, and lets himself be carried. Crowley finds them a spot far away from the cacophony of upstairs, a shady corner in one of the rooms. Crowley takes extra care to leave the door open, which Aziraphale appreciates.

They’ve had quite enough of being locked in for one day, thank you very much.

Once they’re settled, Aziraphale gives a sigh.

“As soon as we get out of here, I’m taking a nap. Several. Along with a shower, and half a packet of biscuits.”

“Thought you didn’t like naps,” Crowley says, a teasing edge to his voice, “you said they were _slovenly.”_

Aziraphale juts his chin into the air and gives a sniff. “They _are. _But I think on this occasion, our current circumstances warrant a little slovenliness, don’t you think?”

“No arguments from me.”

“Sleep would do me some good. And tea. Oh, and a proper meal,” Aziraphale says. “I haven’t eaten in _ages.”_

They sit there, in each other’s arms for a good long while, exchanging thoughts about what they’ll do once they’re not stuck in this hell-hole anymore and how they’re going to spend their lives together. Even in this damp and dirty place, it’s nice just being right here, in Crowley’s arms, with Crowley’s heightened senses attuned the doorway and the corridors outside to alert them of any danger. He feels safe in a way that he hasn’t felt in a good long while.

Time passes. Neither of them have a watch or a phone. There’s no way of knowing whether it’s day or night out in Gabriel’s dungeons, and Aziraphale finds that he has no idea what day it is, or how long they’ve been down here. He yearns for sunlight and to breath fresh air.

Crowley tenses around Aziraphale, sitting up sharply.

“What is it?”

“Vampire,” Crowley says. “I can sense another vampire. Down in these hallways.”

Aziraphale freezes. “Are they close by?”

Crowley’s teeth grit. “They’re coming this way.”

There’s a slam of a metal door against brick, and both Aziraphale and Crowley jump.

That’s when they start to hear the shouting.

“Aziraphale!” they hear, at first distant, but then louder and louder. “AZIRAPHALE?”

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale tightens, and he shifts his body so that he’s in front of him, facing the door.

“Aziraphale,” comes the very familiar American voice, and Aziraphale’s heart sinks.

“Stay here,” Crowley whispers, pushing Aziraphale back into the cell.

Aziraphale grabs at him. “Crowley, don’t—”

But Crowley has already disappeared out into the hallway. Aziraphale’s heart pounds in his throat, his hands pressed firmly over his face, heart lurching as he hears a scream.

_Crowley’s _scream.

There’s a roar, two voices bellowing, and then the sound of a body being slammed against a wall. Then footsteps, stomping towards Aziraphale’s hiding spot.

And then Gabriel’s standing at the door of the room.

His once grey eyes are now a violent purple, his skin much paler than before, and in his mouth, two very sharp fangs.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, and Aziraphale shrinks back against the wall. There’s nowhere to run. He’s trapped.

“You did this to me,” Gabriel hisses.

“I didn’t – I didn’t—” Aziraphale gulps.

Gabriel marches into the room, grabs Aziraphale by the throat and slams him against the wall.

“You did this to me,” Gabriel says, “and now you’re going to _pay_.” 


	16. Chapter 16

Gabriel’s fingers curl around Aziraphale’s shirt, his breath tickling his face, inches away, fangs bared, teeth dripping with venom.

“You did this to me,” Gabriel says, with an anguished breath. “You made me into this.”

“I— I’m sorry,” Aziraphale stammers, “I didn’t mean—”

“You _cursed _me,” Gabriel howls, slamming Aziraphale against the wall again.

He overdoes it, and Aziraphale’s head explodes as it smashes against the walls, his eyes losing focus. He tries to breathe, even as his heart is pounding out of control, hands shaking.

“I didn’t want this,” Aziraphale says, “I didn’t mean for them to—”

“You LIAR,” Gabriel barks.

He pulls Aziraphale up again and turns him over, slamming him onto the floor. He lets out a yelp of pain as he tries to break his fall and lands on his broken wrist, tears springing into his eyes.

“You wanted this,” Gabriel hisses, “this is what you wanted all along, to curse us all to become like them, to lose our souls, to become _unforgivable.”_

“I didn’t, I didn’t,” Aziraphale begs helplessly.

He tries to scramble away but his body is half broken and Gabriel moves with a speed that Aziraphale has never seen from anyone, not even Crowley. In a flash, he’s blocking the door, slamming it shut behind them. Gabriel picks Aziraphale up by the scruff of his neck, fingers digging into his throat. A trail of blood trickles down his neck, and the noise that bubbles up from the back of his throat is strangled, a gargled mess.

“How dare you do this to me,” Gabriel says, “how _dare _you do this to me, after all I did for you? After I took you in, fed you, gave you the best life possible? Everything I did was because I loved you, Aziraphale, and _this _is how you thank me?”

Aziraphale manages, somehow, to pull himself away from Gabriel’s grip, his body dropping to the floor like a puddle.

“That’s not love,” Aziraphale says, his breath ragged, “that’s control.”

His hands feel about in his trouser pocket.

Gabriel, enraged, lifts Aziraphale up off the floor, slams him against the wall again, teeth dangerously close to Aziraphale’s throat. His eyes are wide, and Aziraphale watches the way his pupils dilate, the way he takes a deep breath in, throat twitching.

Aziraphale presses his back against the wall, inching away from Gabriel’s teeth.

“What have you _done _to me?” Gabriel says, “I’ve never felt so... so...”

Aziraphale really doesn’t want him to figure out that the answer is _hungry._

“You don’t have to do this. You can live like this, Gabriel. You can choose who to be,” Aziraphale says, quickly, hands digging in his pockets, hitting metal. “We’re not defined by what we are, but what we choose to do.”

Gabriel doesn’t listen, a fury and a hunger filling his eyes as his teeth grit.

“I am going to _kill you,” _Gabriel hisses, opening his jaw wide.

As fast as he possibly can, Aziraphale sweeps the silver cross he pickpocketed earlier and slams it against Gabriel’s heart. Gabriel stills, his limbs paralyzed in the air. His eyes still move, looking down at his arms and then back at Aziraphale, but otherwise, he’s completely frozen.

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale says, and he means it. Looking at Gabriel now adds to Aziraphale’s never-ending supply of guilt. “I am sorry that anyone has ever made you believe that love is a thing you can control.”

“You’ve made me a monster,” Gabriel bites through clenched teeth.

“You were already a monster,” Aziraphale says.

He pulls the cross away for just a second so he can delve into his other pocket to pull out a stake, and he feels Gabriel slash at him, but despite the pain, he manages to drive the iron right through Gabriel’s heart.

In an instant, Gabriel is dust on the floor, killed by his own stake. 

Crowley, at the door, finally manages to wrench the door off his hinges, just as Aziraphale falls to his knees, blood gushing from the huge slash across his stomach.

“Oh,” he says nonsensically as he falls, “oh, dear.”

* * *

Crowley nearly falls over himself as he throws himself into the room, darting over to get to Aziraphale.

He is paler than Crowley has ever seen him, and quivering uncontrollably, his hands covered in blood. There’s blood _everywhere. _Gabriel had been quick, angry, and new-born strong and the wound was impossibly deep. Aziraphale is bleeding out. He’s going to bleed to death.

“Aziraphale,” he pleads, tears filling his eyes as his fingers brush Aziraphale’s hair out of his forehead. “Aziraphale!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, shakily, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t speak. Save your strength until I can get you to a hospital. You’re going to be alright, Aziraphale, you’re going to be _fine,” _Crowley almost spits, more for his own sake than Aziraphale’s.

They did not go through all of this just for Aziraphale to die now. They did _not. _It’s not fair. The universe has taken so much from Crowley, they will not take Aziraphale too.

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “I’m afraid there’s not enough time.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Crowley says forcefully. “Don’t give up.”

A shaky hand reaches to cup Crowley’s face. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not. You’re _not. _I won’t let that happen.”

More tears spill down Crowley’s face. They were supposed to have _years _together.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, his eyes losing focus. Crowley wants to jump into hell itself and pull Aziraphale back, say, _not yet, not yet, not forever. _“This is the one thing you can’t rescue me from.”

“Aziraphale, no.”

“You have to go on living. For as long as you can manage. You have to live, Crowley.”

“I don’t want to – I _can’t _– live without you, Aziraphale. Please don’t make me,” Crowley begs.

Shaky tears fill Aziraphale eyes. “I’m not sure I have a choice.”

Crowley gathers Aziraphale into his arms as gently as possible, holding him close. Blood soaks through his trousers, covers his chest, his hands, but he doesn’t care.

“You should go,” Aziraphale whispers. “This can’t be easy for you.”

For a moment, Crowley wonders what he means, and then remembers all the blood. His throat is roaring at him, his eyes clouding over, that desperation, that unquenchable thirst returning, but he shoves it all away.

“I’m not just going to leave you here to die alone,” Crowley says, “I’m not going to leave you at all.”

“_Crowley,” _Aziraphale says in a hushed breath. “It was worth it. For every moment I got to spend with you, it was worth it. My only regret is that we didn’t have more time to spend together.”

“We _will _have more time together. You’re going to live. I won’t let you die here.”

“I think it’d be easier for the both of us if we didn’t lie to each other, my darling,” Aziraphale says.

“I love you,” Crowley chokes out. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to die.”

“I love you, too. Oh, Crowley. I wish I could tell you how much.”

Aziraphale’s eyes cloud over, his voice trailing away.

No. No. This can’t be happening. They were supposed to have more time together. They were supposed to have _forever._

...They could still have forever.

They could have _forever _forever, where neither of them will be taken from each other, where they could have more years than they could count together, they could. Crowley won’t have to watch Aziraphale die here. Crowley won’t have to watch Aziraphale die _ever._

The way forward appears with sudden clarity.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers. “Are you still with me?”

Aziraphale gives a very small moan, barely there.

“I’m going to fix this,” Crowley says, “but it’s going to hurt a little.”

Crowley darts down, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s neck, kissing him gently and then opening his jaw to bite down hard.

At first, Aziraphale does nothing.

Then, he starts to scream.

* * *

The pain is like nothing he’s ever felt.

All he can do is scream and writhe. His body feels like it’s on fire, his limbs feel like they’re being stretched, ripped from their sockets and then stitched back together. His lungs feel like they’ve been built for nothing but pulling screams out of his body, and his skin feels like fire ants are crawling all over him. There’s nothing he can do. It’s uncontrollable, uncontainable, it’s awful.

He’s dimly aware of someone’s hands in his hair, someone whispering soft apologies, of tears trickling down his face, of some whispering, “I’m so, so, sorry, I love you, I’ve got you, you’re going to be alright.”

He can’t think, can’t do anything but open his mouth and scream, can hardly register the person holding him. He tries to focus in on the hands touching him, the gentle way he’s being pulled into someone’s arms and cradled. There’s a far off part of his brain that feels comforted by this, that wants to lean into the touch and lose himself into it, but it’s lost by the overwhelming fire that burns through his veins. His limbs surely must have been pulled away from him now. There must be nothing left of him but bones and a scream, that will surely last even after his body has withered away.

And then, mercifully, everything goes black, his mind drifting away as his body stills.

Aziraphale the human is gone.


	17. Chapter 17

The screaming lasts for an age.

It’s loud and overwhelming, and Crowley wants to cover his ears. Every noise that Aziraphale makes strikes him in the heart, makes his stomach churn and his head feel like it’s spinning.

_You did this to him, _says the voice in his brain. _You caused him this pain._

_If I didn’t, _Crowley bites back, _then he would have died._

_And you think he’s better off like this than dead?_

Crowley doesn’t have an answer for that, so he clenches his jaw and pulls Aziraphale into his arms, running his fingers through his hair, teasing out those soft curls.

“I’m so, so, sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry I did this to you, you deserved better, you deserved better than this. Oh, my love, you deserved the world. You didn’t deserve to be cursed like this.”

But Crowley, selfishly, couldn’t have let Aziraphale bleed out on the floor. He’d decided a long time ago that life wasn’t worth living without Aziraphale, and – though he never admitted it to the man, because he would surely have got a stern talking to for even thinking about it – he knew that once Aziraphale was gone from this world, Crowley wouldn’t have stayed much longer.

He’d never wanted this for Aziraphale. He’d never wanted Aziraphale to live a life of constant thirst, of a desperate desire to commit horrible atrocities to innocent people who didn’t deserve it. Sure, Crowley had tried his hardest to limit the damage that he inflicted onto people, but it had taken years of learning to control himself, an age of screwing up and having to move on, disappear and start a new life elsewhere, lest he be caught. He’d never wanted that for Aziraphale.

But he couldn’t – just _couldn’t – _watch him die.

So, Crowley holds Aziraphale as he writhes, lets him struggle and shout in his arms, holds him still before he can do any damage to himself. 

“I’ve got you. I won’t leave you. I won’t let you do this alone,” Crowley vows into Aziraphale’s ear, “I’ll be by your side for all of it, I promise. I’ll protect you. I’ll look after you. I’ll stay with you until you tell me to go, and if you do, I’ll do it gladly. My life is tied to yours; it always has been. We’ll be together for as long as you want to be.”

Aziraphale lets out another pained scream, and tears slip from Crowley’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, holding Aziraphale against his chest. “I never wanted you to have to bear this. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m going to protect you, I promise.”

Aziraphale continues to scream, and it’s like it’s being ripped straight from his guts, strangled and in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley says again. “I love you. I love you so much, Aziraphale, more than I can say. I love you with all of my heart.”

And then, the screaming stops and Aziraphale goes very still. His eyes close and his limbs stop flailing, and then there’s nothing, his limbs go limp in Crowley’s arms.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley whispers, turning Aziraphale’s face to look at him.

Aziraphale doesn’t respond. He’s completely inert.

This is the moment, Crowley knows, that’ll decide their fate. Either, Aziraphale eyes will open, his body renewed, a different person to who he was before, now stronger with sharper senses and desperate, unquenchable thirst.

Or he won’t wake up at all.

Crowley’s heart pounds, and he holds his breath as he waits. It could be any amount of time. He could be waiting for a few minutes, a few hours, a day or two. Or he could be holding a dead body in his arms, hoping for someone who has already left this world to open their eyes once more.

He strokes Aziraphale’s hair, pressing kisses in between the curls.

There’s blood everywhere. The smell of it burns through Crowley’s nose, and he has to fight back against the urge prickles on his skin. He’s become so good at blocking it out, so good at holding his breath and keeping that dreadful thirst at bay, especially around Aziraphale. Aziraphale had always put Crowley on a pedestal, always thought of him as good. Crowley had heard the way Aziraphale had defended him from Gabriel. Aziraphale thought so much of him.

Would he think the same after he woke up? _If _he woke up?

Aziraphale’s body tenses in Crowley’s arms.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley’s voice is quiet, hardly daring to hope.

There’s more slight movement as Aziraphale’s body twitches, and Crowley watches as the wound on his stomach gradually stitches itself together. The graze on his head gradually heals. His hand, which had been hanging at an odd angle, rights itself.

Crowley’s heart hammers. If Aziraphale is healing himself, that means...

“Aziraphale?” he says again, desperate and hopeful. “Aziraphale, are you...?”

There’s more movement, a breath, another twitch, life returning to Aziraphale’s limbs.

Two very red eyes snap open.

And then:

“Crowley?”

* * *

It seems almost impossible when his eyes open, and he’s overwhelmed by smell, and touch, the feel of something familiar around him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, and then there are arms around him, tugging him against his chest.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, his voice hoarse, “oh, lord, Aziraphale, I was so worried, I thought – I thought you’d – I thought you were gone.”

So had Aziraphale, if he’s being honest, he’s not quite sure how he’s here now, or why everything is so much brighter than before, why the world had seemed to tip somehow, why everything was fresher and louder and in more focus than before.

Aziraphale pushes back a bit, squeezing his eyes open and shut.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley freezes, concern colouring his face. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and blinks, “yes, yes, I’m fine I’m just. What’s happening? I was... so sorry, my memory’s gone a bit fuzzy—” he squeezes his eyes shut again and then opening them— “I was dying. Gabriel...”

He looks down his chest. He’s still covered in blood, but the wound in his chest has been healed over, as has his wrist. His hand goes to the back of his head – that’s all healed too. How... how is that possible?

“Am I dead?” he blurts.

Crowley looks almost sorrowful then, his eyes wide. There are tear stains down his cheeks.

“You’re not dead, angel,” Crowley explains, “I turned you. Into a vampire.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then his eyebrows shoot up, “oh! Well, that explains. Everything.”

He remembers now, Crowley’s teeth in his neck, and the fire that had followed, the terrible burning sensation in his limbs as his body tore itself apart and stitched itself back together.

“I’m so sorry,” Crowley says, his hands lacing through Aziraphale’s. They’re warmer than before. Crowley had lovely hands, but they were always so cold. Now, they’re the same temperature. How odd.

“I shouldn’t have done this to you,” Crowley says, his voice anguished. “I didn’t want this for you. I just couldn’t bear to watch you die, it was so selfish, I just couldn’t bear to live in a world without you—”

“—Is this how you see things?” Aziraphale interrupts, having not been listening at all, staring around the room.

“...yes?”

“I can see everything,” Aziraphale marvels, “every little crack. Was it this bright before?”

“Your senses have changed,” Crowley explains, but Aziraphale still doesn’t really register him, still staring around their tiny cell. He can hear the sounds of the rats in the walls, their little feet pattering against stone. He can hear the little bugs in the corner of the cell, can hear them crawling across the floor.

“This is,” he says, breathless, “_incredible.”_

He jolts to his feet, and he’s upright far faster than he meant to, the world zooming past him as he moves. Crowley gives a yelp as he’s dragged up with him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, “I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. You’re going to move much faster now. Takes some getting used to,” Crowley says.

“This is incredible,” Aziraphale says again.

If this is what it looks like in their dingy little cell, what must it look like out in the open air? What does the world look like through these eyes? Brighter? More vibrant? All at once, Aziraphale can taste the thought of outside, and the need to stretch his limbs, to run, to see the world, hits him fast.

“Can we go outside?” he says. “I need to see the world. I have to go.”

“Steady on,” Crowley says. “Maybe we should think about getting you something to drink first.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then wavers, the world spinning a little.

He hadn’t noticed it initially, but now that Crowley has pointed it out, he can’t seem to push it away – this unbearable ache in his throat, a desperation for something.

“Oh, I don’t much like that,” Aziraphale says, wobbling a bit.

Crowley’s hands steady him, curling around his arms. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale breathes in, and every gulp of air brings new sensations with it, new thirsts, new smells. It’s all a bit much. Crowley watches as he starts to panic.

“Hey, hey, Aziraphale, it’s okay, you’re alright,” Crowley says, holding onto him. “It’s all a bit overwhelming at first. Hold your breath, it’ll help.”

Aziraphale holds his breath. It doesn’t do much to quench the burn in his throat, but at least the rush of new sensations abates just a little.

A new thought springs to mind.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says, voice wobbling, “but I can’t – I can’t stop this – I _need—”_

_“_I know, angel,” Crowley says, grimly. “There’s ways around it. It won’t be easy, though.”

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale says. “I won’t have anyone dying because of me.”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitch.

“What?”

Crowley smiles, very softly. “I’m just glad to see you haven’t lost any of your... you-ness.”

“Could that have happened?”

“The change does things to people, love,” Crowley says. “They don’t always keep... what made them human.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t let it happen to you,” Crowley says fiercely, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand tightly. “I’m going to do my best to help you, in whatever ways I can.”

Aziraphale squeezes back, and Crowley lets out a yelp.

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

Crowley gives a hiss of pain, and then nods. “You’re gonna have to be a bit gentler than you mean to be,” Crowley explains, “you’re much stronger than you were before. And new-borns are always at the height of their strength. You’re going to be much stronger than me for a while.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, guilt pooling into his stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I should have warned you.” 

Aziraphale bites his lip. “Is this how you felt all the time? When I was human?”

Crowley’s lips press together. “Yes,” he admits.

More guilt. How many times had Aziraphale pushed him? How many times had he refused to listen to Crowley’s protests? How many times had he put Crowley in pain, trying not to hurt him?

“Hey,” Crowley says, tucking a finger under Aziraphale’s chin, “don’t give me that guilty look. I knew what I was getting into.”

“I didn’t realise how much you had to control yourself,” Aziraphale grouses, “I thought – I thought—”

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, and then throws himself into Crowley’s arms, holding tight around his waist, burying his face into Crowley’s chest. Crowley, who had taken a few steps back in surprise, looks rather taken aback before he encircles Aziraphale in his arms.

“What’s this for?” he asks.

“You’re braver, stronger than I ever knew,” Aziraphale whispers. “Thank you. For you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, his voice sounding strangled, and when Aziraphale pulls back, his eyes are wandering away from him, thoroughly embarrassed.

His cheeks look a touch pink, which amuses Aziraphale. How can this ridiculous vampire be so human?

And then Aziraphale feels taken aback himself. _He’s _a ridiculous vampire now, too. It’s going to take some time to get used to that fact.

Crowley swallows, still unable to look at Aziraphale, which tickles Aziraphale to no end.

“We should get out of here,” Crowley says. “I’m not sure how long we’ve been here and we don’t want to be anywhere near here once people start getting wind of what’s going down.”

“Gabriel likes to keep his business quiet. I hardly think anyone will find out about this,” Aziraphale says.

“Gabriel’s dead, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, quietly.

“Right. Yes. Of course.”

Aziraphale’s voice is stilted. For a moment, he’d forgotten, but even with his human memories being as hazy as they are, he can’t forget the feeling of the stake in his hands, Gabriel’s claws in his stomach, Gabriel, dust on the floor.

Had he really done that? Had he really killed the man who’d taken him in, looked after him, fed him, gave him a bed to sleep in? Had he really done that?

He shakes his head, as if it’ll clear the last dregs of Gabriel’s manipulation away. Gabriel may have taken him in, but that didn’t mean that Aziraphale deserved the abuse he’d received from his hands.

Still. It didn’t mean that his death sat right with Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley lightly touches Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You ready to go?” 

Aziraphale nods. It’s time he left this place behind, for good this time.

Crowley holds out his hand and Aziraphale takes it, taking extra care to keep his touch light as possible, as much as he wants to squeeze hard onto Crowley and never let go.

They make their way towards the upper levels.

“Best be careful,” Crowley says before getting to the final door. “When I left it was carnage. I’ve got no idea what state it’ll be in now.”

Aziraphale nods, and steels himself as Crowley slides the bolt back and opens the door.

He’s unable to keep a gasp out when they enter the hallway.

Whatever war had waged here, it hadn’t been clean. The room was as bloody as Aziraphale was, and the way was littered with the remains of what had happened. There were piles of dust everywhere – dead vampires, slayed at the hands of Gabriel’s men. But there were also bodies – Gabriel’s soldiers. Some of them had been torn to pieces. Some of them had been drained dry.

It’s not a pleasant sight.

Aziraphale pinches his nose, feeling a little ill. Perhaps if he were still human, he might have thrown up, but as a vampire, that isn’t an urge for him now.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling uneasy as he looks around the room at the damage that had been wrought, under Gabriel’s name.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Aziraphale says with a frown.

“No,” says Crowley.

He looks just as uneasy as Aziraphale feels, his mouth taught, lips pressed together. In this dim light, shirtless and covered in Aziraphale’s blood, without his signature glasses to cover his eyes, Crowley looks war-torn. His hair is mussed, burn scars from the silver across his lips and wrists. Aziraphale takes his hand, and for a moment, Crowley looks at him in surprise.

And then his gaze softens. “Let’s get out of here, angel. Let’s go home.”

And Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, he just nods once.

* * *

The aftermath continues out of the basement into Gabriel’s headquarters.

The whole house is quiet. With his new and improved senses, Aziraphale’s hearing catches no sign of movement or life. The war is over, and either the survivors had fled, or had been slain.

He wonders briefly about Gabriel’s soldiers, the people he’d grown up with, the people he’d once fought alongside. Had they escaped? Or had they all died in here, in countless horrific ways? Aziraphale found himself hoping that they’d escaped. He’d once assumed himself the only one on the receiving end of Gabriel’s wrath, but now that he looks back on childhood, he wonders how many others there were. How many of them had been subject to Gabriel’s torment and abuse? How many of them survived it?

It’s a bitter thought, and one that Aziraphale pushes to the back of his brain.

As they make their way towards an exit, Aziraphale takes a breath, one particular smell flushing through his senses, his pupils dilating.

Something changes in him, and growl erupts from the back of his throat, that purring, unquenchable thirst uncoiling within him, filling him with an insatiable need.

Crowley had smelled it too, his hands tensing around Aziraphale’s.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, a warning in his voice.

But Aziraphale isn’t listening. That smell had filled him with purpose, and now it feels like he might die if he doesn’t follow it and find its source. He twists out of Crowley’s grips, ignoring the increasingly worried protests coming from his mouth, and follows that scent back into the house.

It’s then that he hears a rustle, a breath, and then something clamping around his ankle.

A burning sensation explodes across his skin, and he lets out a yelp of pain, looks down and sees a silver handcuff, slotted around his leg.

On the floor, a very bloody, but very triumphant looking Michael, looks at him with a nasty grin, a glint in their eye.

“Gotcha,” they say, with a grin.


	18. Chapter 18

Michael looks ragged on the floor, their hand pressed into a wound on their side, their voice breathless. They must have been the sole survivor of the war in Gabriel’s headquarters, hiding in the shadows and lying low until the worst of the battle had passed.

And now they had caught Aziraphale in a trap. 

“Well, well, well,” Michael says, “Look at what he’s done to you. Red eyes are just not a look for you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale lets out a snarl, and it almost surprises him. Is this what he’s like now? Crowley’s snarls and growls had always unleashed something in Aziraphale, they’d set free a desire in him that he’d never realised he had.

But coming from him, they sound rather undignified.

“Gabriel always said you’d end up like this,” Michael taunts. “You never did have much spine. He always said you were too soft.”

Something like anger takes over Aziraphale, his jaw clenching, teeth grinding together.

“He’s not saying much of anything now,” Aziraphale says, “seeing as I killed him.”

It comes out much sharper than Aziraphale is used to, but he’s tired. He’s been beaten and taunted and tortured, and his body’s gone through a change that he’s not got used to.

A glimmer of surprise and fear passes across Michael’s face, gone as quickly as it was there, but Aziraphale catches it.

“I killed him,” he says, “after everything he tried to do, after all the power he thought he had, I killed him. He’s _gone _and he’s not coming back. You’re on your own now, Michael.”

“I don’t need him,” Michael hisses, “I don’t need him to take you down. I’ve already got you caught in my trap.”

And Aziraphale has had just about as much as he can bear of traps and vampire slayers and soldiers who think they’re fighting a noble cause just to assert their dominance over anything they view as weak. There’s an unquenchable thirst in his throat, a wave of unshakeable anger in his bones, and his hands are curling into fists and before he knows it, he’s pulling, and pulling and despite the way the silver stills his limbs, despite the burning feeling in his ankle, Aziraphale pulls and pulls, letting out an almighty yell as he pulls his leg away from the handcuff.

It snaps, and Aziraphale is free.

Michael pales, backing away against the wall, still holding helplessly onto the wound on their side.

“Who’s in your trap now, Michael?” Aziraphale says, surging forward and curling his fists around Michael’s coat.

“Aziraphale,” Michael gasps, “please.”

The scent of their blood is too strong. It fills Aziraphale’s nostrils and consumes him completely. His entire body yearns for it, yearns to clamp his mouth around Michael’s neck.

“It wasn’t me,” Michael begs, “it was Gabriel. I didn’t want to hurt anything. Gabriel made me do it.” 

But Aziraphale can’t stop the thirst, and his teeth plunge into Michael’s neck, drinking desperately. There’s a part of him that expects to be disgusted, but with every swallow, he feels renewed. It’s like nothing he’s ever tasted. It’s the only thing he wants.

Michael lets out a strangled yell and several pleas, but Aziraphale doesn’t stop.

He hears a voice behind him.

“Aziraphale!”

It’s Crowley. He must have come to find him.

That doesn’t matter now. He’s got exactly what he needs, right in front of him, filling him up. The life slowly drains out of Michael.

“Aziraphale.” The voice is louder now, and he can feel Crowley’s hands on his shoulders.

Wait.

What is he doing?

For a moment, Aziraphale feels strangely like he’s standing over himself, watching himself drain the blood from Michael’s body.

He doesn’t want to do this. As awful as Michael is, they’re no Gabriel.

Wait, wait, wait. Aziraphale doesn’t want to kill them. Aziraphale doesn’t want to do this to them.

He has to stop. He has to _stop._

With one last scream in his head, Aziraphale unclamps his jaw and lets himself stumble back into Crowley’s arms, which tighten around him.

“You’re alright,” Crowley whispers into Aziraphale’s ear. “You’re okay.”

On the floor, Michael is pale. They’ve lost a lot of blood. Their eyes are out of focus, their head lulling back against the wall.

But they’re very much _alive._

“Oh,” Aziraphale says unhappily. “I didn’t – I didn’t want to go that far.”

Crowley, meanwhile, is blinking at Michael, staring down at the weakened but nonetheless alive soldier of Gabriel. “You shouldn’t have been able to stop,” he says, his voice filled with surprise. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I shouldn’t have done it at all,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You’ve got incredible control,” Crowley says. “Most newborns aren’t able to stop.”

It doesn’t make Aziraphale much better. He keeps looking down at Michael on the floor, pale and quivering, letting out a gentle moan. Aziraphale had done that to them.

“Let’s go,” Aziraphale says, his voice small. “Let’s get out of here.”

Crowley slinks an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him close. “C’mon, angel. I’ll take you home.”

* * *

Crowley keeps hold of Aziraphale’s hand as they leave Gabriel’s headquarters for good. They take it at a run, and the world speeds around beside them, wind in their hair, holding onto each other.

Aziraphale still seems amazed by each new discovery, especially the speed of movement. He’d never been a fast runner; he’d explained to Crowley. The vampire speed was something he’d never get used to.

Crowley watches Aziraphale carefully as he makes their way back to the bookshop. As excited as he’d been by every new sense, he still saw the guilt that rested behind his eyes. The uglier sides of the vampire life – the side that Crowley had been determined to keep away from Aziraphale when he was human – weighs on him, and Crowley can tell.

A fresh layer of guilt takes over Crowley. He’d done this to Aziraphale. He hadn’t given him a choice whether he wanted to live or die. He’d made that choice for him, and now Aziraphale was dealing with the costs. 

* * *

The bookshop is different now.

When Crowley opens the door for him, Aziraphale walks through and finds his senses overwhelmed once more. The smell of the bookshop hits him quite hard, and he almost stumbles back into Crowley as it washes over him, filling him up.

He can smell the dust of the books, the slight tang of metal of the cash register and the money inside. He wrinkles his nose, smelling the food he’d left on the kitchen counter, that had gone mouldy in his absence. He can smell his unwashed clothes upstairs, the dirty sheets on the bed. It’s all a bit much at once.

“Christ alive, Aziraphale,” Crowley says as he saunters into the bookshop. “What have you been doing with the place?” 

Aziraphale circles his fingers together and finds that the ring on his little finger had been lost in the scuffle between him and Gabriel. He feels its absence acutely, and he rubs the bare skin there, as if that will bring it back.

“I wasn’t really looking after myself,” Aziraphale admits, “after you left.”

The teasing look on Crowley’s face fades, replaced by a familiar expression, the lines on his forehead twisting, a frown on his face.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley says. “I never should have left you like I did. I should have stayed and listened to you, rather than running like a coward. Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t have—”

Aziraphale shushes him, darting over, much faster than he means to, to place a finger over Crowley’s lips.

“I think it’s best if we stop trying to pass blame about that,” Aziraphale says, “if there’s any blame to give, it lies with Gabriel. What’s done is done.”

Crowley nods, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for him, there’s still that anguished look in his eye, and frown on his face.

Aziraphale looks around the place. “This is all easily fixable, I should think,” he says, and he zooms about the place, picking up all the half-drunk mugs of tea and taking them back to the kitchen counter, as fast as he can.

Crowley smiles softly as he watches him, and after a while, he stands up to take hold of Aziraphale’s arm. “Give it a rest, love, you’re making me dizzy.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, and stops, “sorry, it’s just I feel like I’ll never get used to all this new speed, and strength.”

“Take your time,” Crowley advises, “it took me years before I was fully used to what my strength could do, or how fast I could go.”

“Years?” Aziraphale says, worry leaking into his voice again.

Everything feels incredibly off-kilter. Aziraphale had always been a creature of habit, he liked things to be just so, and wasn’t a particular fan of when his routine was broken. Now, his life had been rather shaked up. His routines would never be the same again. His life wouldn’t be the same again.

Aziraphale sinks down onto the sofa and stares at his hands.

It was going to take him some time.

Crowley watches him carefully.

“Do you...” he ventures, hovering in the air rather awkwardly, “...want some time alone? I know it’s all new, and overwhelming, and you like your alone time, and I just—”

“—Don’t go,” Aziraphale says, sharply. He swallows. “Please,” he tries again, “don’t go.”

Crowley takes his hand and threads their fingers together. The feeling of him keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is.

“I’m not going anywhere, not if you don’t want me to,” Crowley says. “I’ll be right here with you, for as long as you need me to me, for as long as you want, okay? I won’t let you go.”

Aziraphale takes a gulp of air. He doesn’t need it. He could go quite easily without taking a breath at all, but it feels comfortable and familiar and Aziraphale feels as if he very much needs the protection of the familiar, right now.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, after he realises that he’s been sitting in silence and holding onto Crowley’s hand for a long time. “Sorry. It’s just. Difficult.”

“I know,” Crowley says, softly, his thumb stroking over Aziraphale’s skin. “I know, love, you don’t need to apologise.”

“I don’t mean to be a burden.”

“You’re not. You could never be.”

Aziraphale slides down, letting himself be pulled gently into Crowley’s arms, feeling Crowley’s fingers in his hair, listening to his voice.

His senses overloaded, Aziraphale begins to cry, glad that, even as a vampire, he’s allowed to keep that bodily function. Crowley rocks him gently, pressing soft kisses into Aziraphale’s hair and whispering soothing words.

“After everything,” Aziraphale says after a long while, “I feel like I should be over Gabriel. I feel like I should be over the things he said and the things he did. But I still feel so... so _guilty _for what I did to him.”

“I know,” Crowley whispers. “It’s okay.”

“I knew what Beelzebub was going to do to him if I led him into that room. I knew how it was going to end. But I pretended that it was all them, that everything that was happening was completely designed by them, that I had nothing to do with it,” Aziraphale says, “but _I _was the one that led him there. I was the one that did this. And I was the one that killed him. I did that to him.”

He takes a shuddering gulp of air, his breath shaking. “He took me in when I had no one. He gave me food when I had none. He did all that for me and I killed him.”

Crowley’s arms tighten around Aziraphale. “He also hurt you, Aziraphale. He spent years making you believe that you deserved all the shit he gave you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “I know.” 

“He might have helped you out when you were young, but you still didn’t owe him anything. You were a _kid. _Every kid deserves a roof over their head and someone to look after them, not someone who’s going to turn them into a child soldier.”

“I know. Gabriel was awful, and the things he did were terrible,” Aziraphale says, “I know that. I’m just not sure he deserved to die. Does anyone?”

There’s a long silence, and then Crowley says, softly, “I don’t know, angel. I don’t know.”

* * *

The next few days pass heavily, as Aziraphale continues to get used to his new body and his new powers. There’s still tension between the two of them, and Crowley often finds Aziraphale staring off into the distance or flicking through pages in a book without reading any of the words.

With every passing hour, Crowley grows more guilty, the sheer weight of it weighing down on his shoulders. He feels like he might be buried under the rubble of it.

“Aziraphale,” he says, on their fourth day free from Gabriel’s mansion.

Aziraphale looks up from his book. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry for doing this to you.”

Aziraphale almost drops the book, his eyes snapping up to meet Crowley’s. “Why ever would you be?”

Crowley frowns sitting down opposite him. “You’re finding this life hard. I just... feel like I’ve taken something from you. When we were back in the cells, all I could think about was keeping you with me, extending your life. But this... this isn’t much of life. I’ve doomed you to an eternity of this, of that horrible thirst, of watching time pass by endlessly.”

He buries his head into his hands. “I didn’t—” his voice shakes— “I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want this life for you. You deserved so much more than this, and I made you become this. I didn’t even _ask_.”

There’s a _crack _and pain explodes across Crowley’s forehead after Aziraphale darts forward and smacks him, much harder than his human self could have.

“Hey!” Crowley says indignantly as he rubs his head.

The pain fades almost as quickly as it was there, and with his vampire healing, there won’t even be so much as a lump, but _still, _it’s the principle of the thing.

Above him, Aziraphale is grinding his teeth, a furious look on his face.

“Don’t you dare apologise for saving my life,” he says, firmly. “I would have bled out in that dark cell if you hadn’t done that for me. If you hadn’t... changed me, then my last memories would have been my abuser clawing me in the stomach and me bleeding out on the floor. I am... more than thrilled, that you have given me a chance at a new life. I am _ecstatic, _Crowley, more so than you would ever believe, that I get to spend the rest of my life with you, so don’t pull that self-pitying nonsense on me.”

Crowley’s heart hammers hard at the weight of the words Aziraphale has just spoken.

“Then why...?”

Aziraphale laughs a little. “I love being alive, Crowley, but I don’t want to hurt anyone. And this life means the possibility of hurting people. And I’m just enough of a bad person—”

“You’re not a bad person,” Crowley says, automatically, but Aziraphale ignores him.

“—I’m just enough of a bad person that the possibility of a life with you is enough to make me work through it,” Aziraphale says, and then sinks back into his chair. “But it’s still hard. I didn’t realise how hard it would be until I saw myself drinking Michael’s blood.”

Crowley wonders if it’s safe enough to reach out and take his hand and decides that Aziraphale looks like he needs the comfort. He slinks his hand across the table to take Aziraphale’s, letting their fingers tangle together.

Aziraphale gives a small grateful smile. “I am sorry,” he says, “I do not mean to be difficult. I just need time to get used to this. I need time... to process this.”

“I can give you time alone. I can give you all the time you need,” Crowley says.

He tries to move away from the table, but Aziraphale digs his fingers in and keeps Crowley anchored there.

“I told you before. I want you to stay. I don’t want you to go,” Aziraphale says, “I can process with you here. Besides, I think you need me as much as I need you right now.”

And if that isn’t the truth. Crowley has been prepping himself with the idea that Aziraphale might want him to leave, but honestly, the moment he’s not in Aziraphale’s vicinity anymore, he feels like he might crumble.

Aziraphale rubs his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, again. “I didn’t mean to shout or to be rude to you. It’s not _you, _or this life, I hope you know that. I’m not quiet because I think you’ve turned me into a monster or bound me to sin. Those were Gabriel’s lies, and they weren’t true when I was a human, and they’re not true now that I’m a vampire. I hope you know that.”

Crowley nods.

It has taken him a long time to claw away at the self-deprecation that had overtaken his life the moment he’d been turned but he did know that. He’d have to keep telling himself that as the years went by, but he did know that.

“Tell me you know that, Crowley.”

“I know that,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale takes a breath. “It’s going to take me a long time to... work through the scars Gabriel left me with, mental if not physical. But I know I didn’t deserve the abuse he gave me. And this new life, I have, all of these new senses, they’re all so overwhelming, and it scares me. _Not _because I don’t want it. I was the one that wanted you to do it, remember?”

Crowley does remember, sifting back through memories of Aziraphale, sitting on his knees and looking up at him with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and swollen lips, _“We could have forever you know. If you change me.”_

“I know,” Crowley says.

“But that doesn’t mean that everything’s easy now.”

“I know,” Crowley says, “of course I know that. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

Aziraphale gives a soft, tired smile.

“Darling,” he says, and Crowley’s heart careens at the pet name, “can we just take it one day at a time?”

He opens up an arm and Crowley dives into them, welcoming the warmth of Aziraphale’s arms, and the affectionate kiss that he presses onto Crowley’s head.

“Of course, angel. We’ve only got forever.”


	19. Chapter 19

They spend a few weeks adjusting.

Crowley teaches Aziraphale how to hunt cleanly. They choose their victims carefully, people that have committed horrible atrocities and nasty crimes, people who have hurt others. People like Gabriel.

Aziraphale still doesn’t quite approve. After their first hunt, he spends the whole night crying in Crowley’s arms, the thought of taking a life – even a life that was used to do terrible things – absolutely abhorrent to him.

Crowley holds him in his arms, rocks him back and forth, whispers reassurances to him.

It’s a difficult adjustment, but they work through it, day by day by day.

A few weeks after escaping Gabriel’s headquarters, Aziraphale reopens the shop. He’d spent a lot of his time cleaning up the mess he’d left behind, reordering the books and cataloguing everything again. Having something to do helps, he finds, and it was a welcome distraction.

One day, he makes himself a cup of tea before realising that he can’t drink it, and bursts into tears at the thought of all the restaurants he’ll never be able to try again, all of the meals he’ll never be able to eat. He finds that he’s already forgotten the taste of dishes that he used to love.

This is almost too much for him to bear. He spends a few days just sobbing, letting Crowley stroke his hair and whisper apologies into his ears.

A few days later, he finally takes a breath.

He comes home with contacts one day to cover his eyes and enjoys the way Crowley’s jaw drops open at the sight of him.

“Your eyes,” he had said, “they’re blue again.”

“Contacts,” Aziraphale explained. “I’m not wandering around in sunglasses all day. They look very fetching on you dear, but I’m sure they’d look ghastly on me.”

Crowley let out a bit of a snigger and the two of them had spent the day readying the shop for reopening.

He thanks his stars for having Crowley nearby, every day. He’s so sweet and attentive, and he’s wonderfully attuned to what might cause a problem for Aziraphale’s new senses, guiding him through life so that he doesn’t accidentally hurt anyone or cause a ruckus. 

They had found a steady rhythm together, and gradually, they were starting to fill in the holes that had been broken.

It starts small. One day, Aziraphale sweeps Crowley into a kiss, threading his arms around Crowley’s waist and holding him tight, and then burying his nose into his neck.

After that, they close up shop and spend a whole day just kissing, remembering what it was like to hold each other. They relearn each other’s habits and movements. It becomes a gentle dance between the two of them, and slowly, but surely, they build their life back up together.

More and more Aziraphale feels like a new person. He begins to get used to his powers, stops accidentally smashing things, or moving too fast unnecessarily.

More and more days pass without Aziraphale bursting into tears over something in his human life that he misses, or without him remembering something Gabriel had once told him, and going very quietly. He finds he’s able to take more and more breaths, to laugh and smile more, to let Crowley hold him and to return his affections.

One day, they’re lying on Aziraphale’s bed, rather superfluous now they neither of them need to sleep, but he enjoys the comfort of it anyway.

He turns over, a curl of a smile on his face as he looks over to where Crowley is lying next to him, eyes closed, arm resting behind his head.

“Crowley,” he says, his eyes raking Crowley’s form, travelling down from his chin to his waist, the point where his hips jut out and his lovely long legs, another kind of thirst taking over his throat. “What do you do with all the time you have without sleeping?”

Crowley gives a non-committal hum. “Dunno. Yell at plants.”

“Because—” Aziraphale gives a little cough— “I did have an idea or two.”

Crowley’s eyes open, sliding over to look at Aziraphale’s face.

Something uncoils in Aziraphale’s stomach, and he rolls over onto his side, smiling at Crowley in that way that Crowley had always called him a bastard for.

And then they’re kissing, Crowley surging upwards to lift himself up and straddle Aziraphale’s lap between his legs, his arms winding around Aziraphale’s head and threading through his hair. Aziraphale loops an arm around Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer. His lips trace Crowley’s jaw, his teeth scraping against Crowley’s throat.

“Angel,” Crowley gasps, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

Aziraphale grins against Crowley’s neck. “Seems only fair,” he says, and flips Crowley over onto his back, sitting on top of him and kissing him hard.

Crowley’s hips buck, but Aziraphale holds him steady, Crowley begging and pleading for more.

“All those times you did this to me,” Aziraphale says, “seems I should return the favour.”

“Aziraphale,” he says, his voice getting even more breathless, “_please.”_

And that’s all the words he needs, so Aziraphale silences Crowley by kissing him fiercely, his hands travelling down to unbutton Crowley’s shirt, his teeth scraping Crowley’s chest. Crowley mewls beneath him as Aziraphale’s mouth slides down, his jaw going slack as his tongue flicks between his thighs. He breathlessly gasps Aziraphale’s name, fingers curling tight in Aziraphale’s hair as Aziraphale slides into him. They rock together, lost in each other, able to do nothing but moan and gasp and sigh. There’s nothing left of the world except what they have together, connected like an anchor to their hearts.

When they come out of their stupor, they realise they're surrounded by pillow feathers and broken wood.

“Well,” Aziraphale says after he manages to get his breath. “I suppose we’ll have to buy a new bed.”

Crowley grins against his Aziraphale’s skin, his arm looping over his waist. “Or try and control ourselves a bit.”

“Seems a bit extreme.”

“Not really worth it now that you mention it.”

And then they’re kissing again, Aziraphale pulling Crowley from the mess on the floor and slamming him against the wall.

Crowley lets out an ‘oof’, and then gives a half-lidded smile.

“Careful, angel,” he says lazily, resting his head back against the wall. “You’re the one who’s going to have to be gentle with me, now.”

“I will do no such thing,” Aziraphale says, sounding almost affronted.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Aziraphale pushes him back against the wall, his hands pinning his wrists. He kisses him fiercely, trying to put every ounce of love into it, thanking him for everything this wonderful, ridiculous man had given him. His human memories were dull now to the extraordinary colour that came with the vampire life, but he could still recall all of the ways the vampire in front of him had made him lose control, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try his hardest to return the favour.

He hoists Crowley up onto him, letting his ankles connect behind his back, fucking him against the wall fast and hard, until he’s slack-jawed, swollen-lipped and gasping Aziraphale’s name.

When he’s done, Crowley looks wrecked, hair out of place, eyes unfocused, and Aziraphale finds himself amused. How many times had they done this as a human, and seen Crowley finish just as put-together and as glorious as he had when they’d started? Now Crowley looks positively ruined. Something uncoils pleasantly at the sight of him like this, and Aziraphale finds his knees going a little weak.

“Had enough, darling?” he says, teasingly.

“Just – you wait—” Crowley heaves a long breath— “I’ll get you back for this.”

“I was rather hoping you would,” Aziraphale says brightly.

It doesn’t take him long. Crowley’s only breathless for mere seconds before he looks up at Aziraphale with shining eyes and fox-like grin, launching at him.

They crash down the stairs and have each other in as many places as possible, re-christening Aziraphale’s new desk, and promptly shattering it to pieces again. With their constitution, neither of them have to worry about splinters, and they roll over onto the bookshop floor, Crowley holding Aziraphale steady.

He sucks bruise after bruise into Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms around him and holding him so tight that he feels like he might burst. He flips Aziraphale onto his stomach, his teeth scraping down his spine, and Aziraphale is delighted to find that it makes him shiver just as much as it did when he was human.

He lets out a whine as Crowley moves roughly against him, thrusting again and again and again until Aziraphale feels like his whole body might shatter like glass, his toes curling, skin tingling. Crowley’s name is a prayer in his mouth, said with a gasp. They both groan together, Crowley peppering kisses across Aziraphale’s back until the two of them flop down against the bookshop floor, gasping for air.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Had to be careful before,” Crowley says, looking at Aziraphale reverently, one hand tracing his jaw. “I was worried if I went too far, I might hurt you. Don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Aziraphale rolls over, tracing his lips down Crowley’s jaw. “How are we ever going to stop?”

He already wants more. Now that he’s had a proper taste of Crowley, he feels like he’ll never get enough. Already his body is screaming out for Crowley to touch him again, and he feels like he might die without Crowley’s lips on his skin. He wants more, more, more, until the end of time, just Crowley and him together, connecting in ways he never thought possible.

They do stop, eventually, even though Aziraphale isn’t sure what time or day or month it is. He’s sure that he and Crowley could just lay in each other’s arms forever, lips swollen, limbs aching, touch sparking like electricity.

But even vampires need a break eventually, and at some point, Aziraphale has to get up and get dressed, as much as the idea is horrendous to him.

Fully clothed, prim and proper again, Aziraphale assesses the damage.

The bookshop is not a pretty sight. The desk is pieces again, the cash register broken. The sofas are overturned, half of the bookshelves have fallen over. Aziraphale winces at all of the books strewn all over the floor, out of place, spines cracked and pages flying.

There are holes in the wall, dents from places where they’d slammed in each other, cracks in the floorboard. One window is smashed.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale says, “did we really do all that?”

“Yup,” Crowley says, popping the ‘p’. “I told you it was hard to stop once you start.”

“They’ll think I’ve been robbed,” Aziraphale says, sounding a little outraged.

But when Crowley loops his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and presses his face into his neck, pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw, he finds himself unable to care all that much. He reaches a hand to run his fingers through Crowley’s scarlet curls, enjoying the way the vampire gives a gentle contented moan from the back of his throat.

“I suppose I’ll have to clean all of this up again,” grouses Aziraphale. “If I’m going to open the shop again.”

Crowley presses his chin against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “About that,” he says, breath tickling against Aziraphale’s ear. “What if we didn’t open the shop?”

“Crowley, as wonderful of a time as I’ve been having with you, I think people are going to start asking questions if I don’t—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale feels the way he’s tensing around him, in that way Crowley always does when he’s nervous about something. “What if we didn’t open the shop ever? What if we... found somewhere else to live?”

“Somewhere other than here?” Aziraphale says, almost dismissively.

“London’s loud. And full of nasty things,” Crowley says.

“Nasty things like us, you mean?”

“Worse things than vampires, angel,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. He was aware that there were other supernatural creatures in the world, but he’d never really given them much thought. What could be worse than vampires?

“I think I need to sit down for this conversation, dear,” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley on the head.

“Right,” Crowley nods, and untangles himself from Aziraphale, letting himself be led over their living room.

They put the sofa back to where it should be, and then curl up together amongst the cushions. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hands, lacing their fingers together gently. 

“I was just thinking,” Crowley says, in a way that makes Aziraphale think that Crowley hadn’t _just _been thinking, in fact, he’d been ruminating on this for a long time, and been too afraid to say, “that maybe a break from London would do us both good. There aren’t... very many good memories for me here. And I’m sure there aren’t that many for you.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together, Gabriel swimming to the forefront of his mind. “Not as such,” he says.

“So, I was thinking. Maybe we could move to the country? Away from all the people, and all the noise. There’s this village I was looking at in the South Downs,” Crowley says. “Secluded. Close to nature. But I was talking through the network—”

“Dear, you really must tell me more about this network at some point,” Aziraphale interrupts, and then grins at Crowley’s pout. “Sorry, love. Go on.”

“—I was talking through the network and there’s a hospital not far away with a man who... knows about us. Might be a source of food for us there in the blood bank. I know that hunting is hard for you. It’d make things a lot easier for us.”

Aziraphale doesn’t really have much to say to that, he just stares at this beautiful, incredible man who has his best interests in mind at all times.

“It’d be an ideal place for two vampires. Lots of space, away from people. We could do our own thing, hidden away from humanity, just the two of us.”

“Just the two of us?” Aziraphale says, his heart warming at the thought.

“You could have your books; I could have my plants. I love you, Aziraphale. I want to spend the rest of existence with you, you and me, together. I can’t... I can’t think of anything I’d want more,” Crowley admits.

Aziraphale’s mouth goes a little dry, eyes threatening to leak if Crowley doesn’t stop looking at him in that wonderful, earnest, hopeful way. 

“And – and if you don’t want to leave here, that’s fine too,” Crowley says quickly, hand going to the back of his head, “I know how much you love this place, I’d never want to take you away from here if you didn’t want to go. I’m happy to be wherever you are, I just thought—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, pressing a finger to Crowley’s lips.

“Yes?” Crowley’s face is all nervous hopefulness.

“That sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale says, “all of it. I can’t think of anything I’d want more, either, than to run away with you.”

“Good,” Crowley says, relief filling his voice. “Because we’ve got a booking to view a cottage that I’d think would be perfect, this weekend.”

Aziraphale leans his head back and lets out a tinkling laugh, eyes shining. “You ridiculous creature,” he says, pulling Crowley close. “Oh, I do love you, Crowley, more than anything.”

He kisses Crowley then, soft and slow, fingers tracing through Crowley’s hair, lining his jaw and pulling his chin up to get closer.

Despite everything, the world was soft, Aziraphale realises in this moment. Despite everything he’d been through and everything he’d done, the world had brought him to this moment right here, with this man, who spoke so gently and loved so much.

Crowley was a wonder bigger than the world, and Aziraphale would give his whole life – had given him his whole life, now that he thinks about it – just to keep him by his side.

They were tied together by string, anchored to each other, written in the stars.

It was all rather ineffable, really.


	20. Chapter 20

**FIVE YEARS LATER**

The cottage in the South Downs is small, but the garden is wide. They are mere metres away from a private beach, with perfect grey pebbles and an ocean that stretches out for miles and miles, disappearing into the horizon.

The cottage is all red brick with vines tangling up the walls, curling around the white gabled windows. The inside is cosy, every surface covered with book after book, ceiling to floor bookshelves on almost every wall, crammed full of almost every book imaginable. There are book piles all over the place, towering precariously as the fussy vampire that owed them piled them high, giving little care for how big the book towers had begun to be.

There are plants too. The cottage is a veritable jungle, surrounded by some of the most verdant and luxurious plants imaginable. The home was filled with bright green and brown, utterly cosy and wonderfully homey.

The inhabitants are an odd pair, at least, their neighbours would say so. Rarely seen out during the daytime at village events, and occasionally spotted out at night, holding hands and staring up at the stars in the sky, they’d reached an almost supernatural status. The strange two men in the old cottage behind the woods.

Crowley finds it all rather amusing of course, finding as many ways as possible to unnerve the villagers, drifting through the village at night like a spectre. Sometimes he’ll hear rumours about himself and recount them gleefully to Aziraphale.

“One of them thinks I’m the ghost of the man who used to live in this house,” Crowley says. “They think I’m haunting the lanes, ready to claim another victim for my own.”

“Now, really, dear,” Aziraphale says, absentmindedly chewing on the stem of his glasses, holding them while he tries to find a page in his book. He doesn’t need them anymore, but old habits die hard, and he finds comfort in wearing them while he reads. He turns a page in the book. “Must you draw attention to yourself?” 

Crowley slides into one of the sofas opposite, slinging his legs across the arms.

“Come on, angel, you’re not even a little bit interested in one of their new theories?” he says, with a grin.

“Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale says, but his glasses are sliding out of his hands, and he finds that he’s helplessly drawn to Crowley’s voice no matter how much he tries to resist.

“Not even a tiny bit?”

“Oh, go on then,” Aziraphale concedes when Crowley rolls over the sofa to drop his head into Aziraphale’s lap.

The corner of his eyes crinkle. “They think we’re werewolves,” he says and cracks up.

“Werewolves, now really,” Aziraphale says, but the corner of his lips tick upwards anyway. “How did they ever come up with such a preposterous theory?”

“They hear stuff breaking in the cottage, and they’ve heard various groaning sounds, like someone changing into something,” Crowley says, a gleeful grin on his face.

Aziraphale flushes bright red, cheeks hot. He gives a cough. “Yes, well,” he says, “perhaps we ought to be a little more careful next time we—”

“Go at it like rabbits?” Crowley says cheerfully.

“Something to that effect, yes,” Aziraphale says.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Crowley says, his hand sliding up to curl around the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him down to draw him into a kiss.

Aziraphale lets himself be kissed, a smile curling across his face. He pulls away for a moment.

“_Werewolves_, though, really?” he says, tilting his head up.

“Angel,” Crowley says, just a hint of a whine in his voice, and Aziraphale gives in, tilting his chin back down to join Crowley’s lips, letting himself be gently pulled over to the sofa, Crowley tucking Aziraphale against the cushions and straddling him.

He leans upwards, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s neck to pull him down and kiss him hard. For all the world, as many times as they do this, Aziraphale still feels breathless, like his legs might give way at any moment. Crowley really is incredible like that.

They kiss and kiss, and Crowley holds Aziraphale tight, skin sparking when it brushes together.

That morning, they’ll wake up and close all the curtains, shielding themselves from the sun and losing themselves in each other, curling up amongst their books and their plants, together, and incandescently happy.

And Aziraphale will sigh at the thought of morning after morning, night after night, year after year with Crowley, their happy ending tied so tightly to each other.

Six thousand years they’ll have together, bound to each other like the stars had been made for them.

And so, they had.

They’re perfect, unbroken creatures, puzzle pieces together like the hands they hold, fingers threaded with one and other, for an eternity.

“Love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley mumbles, that morning.

“I love you too, Crowley,” says Aziraphale. “Oh, my dear. More than the stars themselves.”

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [bee-ezlebub](https://bee-ezlebub.tumblr.com/) and on twitter at [@untakenbeepun](https://twitter.com/untakenbeepun)


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